He rose deliberately to his feet and confronted them. 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 temperature soared to one hundred degrees, sickeningly hot. It had ceased to beat. Nigel Ennison was my very good friend, but there is not the slightest reason for your not marrying him, if you wish to do so.
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