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. Something seemed awry. It was his belief that the French had enough troubles of their own in these difficult times without bothering to nose out British business. “I am convinced you haven’t thought this out,” he went on. Then they dressed her in a dirty dress of coarse serge and a cap, and took away her own clothes.
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