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. That’s— that’s my private life. She flew up from her stool and faced the door. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds. It probably still wouldn’t help.
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