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. There was—a service. One could go to him and tell him one loved him. “This is all madness,” she declared wearily. In short, more preparations were made than if a state criminal was about to be executed. “Does it hurt?” Michelle asked. Anna picked up an ancient magazine, and began to turn over the pages in a leisurely way. Filled as he was with conflicting emotions, any stretch of silence would be dangerous. A shudder rippled across his shoulders. Ain't he, Madam?'" "He is, indeed," replied the widow, fervently; "more—much more than that.
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