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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. Borne along by the current, Darrell was instantly at the boat's side. ‘Comment? You have then met this Suzanne?’ The woman turned a deep red. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman.
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