"On my return, I found the window open, and the room vacant. Have you ever voted, Mr. I want to be myself. 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. It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination.
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