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I have counted you, and always hoped to count you, the best of my friends. He dared not go on. 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. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. But it sounds too real to be imagined. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. Sheppard's house, loud yells and vociferations reached his ears; and, looking downwards, he perceived a great stir amid the mob. " "It is false," cried Mrs. .
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