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. It saved me the bother of being studied. ‘What can I do, miss?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ cried Melusine. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell.
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