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. ‘I do not believe you. What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone. It is her duty to tell me, and I would not have her think that I had been trying to work upon your sympathies to learn her secrets.
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