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. In some incomprehensible way that back view made her feel sorry for Alice. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song.
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