“I repeat, gentlemen,” he said, in an ominously low tone, “what of it?” Drummond shrugged his shoulders. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. “You knew it,” he added, in her momentary silence. 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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