The stench was cheese-like and unbearable and Lucy dry-heaved. "It's an odd-shaped one," rejoined Kneebone, examining it attentively. “I’m a vampire. 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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