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. Were any thing to happen to him, Newgate wouldn't be what it is, nor Tyburn either. She made a slow tour of the front of the house without success, and then started back along the rooms behind, dragging open the drapes each time to get just enough light to recognise what was on the walls. "Only sprained it a little, that's all," answered Thames; "the pain will go off presently.
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