“No!” she exclaimed. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. . "Your answer, gem'men?" demanded Sharples. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage.
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