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. He handed Ruth a letter. "By my shalvation, boy," he added, fiercely, "if you don't take your hande off my peard, I'll sthrangle you. I don’t play anything. A dozen words, and he saw Enschede as clearly as though he stood hard by in the flesh. E.
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