CHAPTER XVIII. She had very few clear memories before a particular day in the library, when they had finished one of her first reading lessons. ” “She doesn’t care for him now?” “Not a bit. 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.
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