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. Michelle looked her up and down, liking the results of her efforts. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. "Hoddy, Hoddy!… No, no! This is my father!" warned Ruth. “I’ve been through all that,” she went on, after a pause. Taking a firm grasp of his pistol, Gerald eased back, let go the handle of the door, and at the same instant, swung his booted foot.
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