A single glance served to show the thief-taker how matters stood. Wood having laid hold of the canvass-bag. No—you shall come with me to Waterloo. God, Lucy, that’s the stuff people wear to Phys. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. 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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