"More slang," he said. All right, I’m coming. 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. This "fatal retreat for the unfortunate brave" was marked by a low wooden railing, within which stood the triple tree.
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