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. She smiled and started for the stairs without reply. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. Double-crossing wouldn't do any good. And imprinting a kiss upon his mother's cold lips, he left the room. I may add that the family is well known to me.
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