The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. ” She took his hand and smiled upon him. 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. " "Your own was equally so," said Jackson ironically. It has been only the sort of nonsense which passes lightly enough between half the men and women in London. .
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