" "Then, we'll lose no more time," returned Jack. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. 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. We simply can’t get away. She danced with two others.
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