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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. "An oath weighs little with me, compared with your safety. Paris, 18. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily. Well, one must hope, that was all.
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