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. "Not before it's needed," returned Jack, aloud; adding in a whisper, "get upon my shoulders, Thames. “Thanks, I’m not very fond of coffee,” Anna answered, “and I hate music. ” They talked for a while in somewhat dreamy fashion, Anna especially being more silent than usual.
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