‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. ‘But that is easy. Mr. Anna stood on the step and looked up and down the street for a hansom. 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. But I'll call a doctor, since you order it.
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