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. “No thanks, Cathy. "Oh! nothin' partickler—mere curossity," replied Terence. I think it inadvisable—I don’t want an intimacy to spring up between you and a man of that type. Thank you for the books.
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