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. ‘Fiddle, Gerald. Ennison?” “He spoke to me, thinking that I was you,” Anna answered. It makes no difference. “And of course you are my niece just as Annabel is, although I am sorry to learn that your conduct has been much less discreet than hers. " CHAPTER VI. 4. She was sorry to find Ramage a little disposed to be melancholy.
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