“Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. 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. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust.
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