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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. As he approached the gable of Mrs. Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. The white veil had fallen to the ground and Gerald retrieved it for her.
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