‘It had better not be, by God,’ had barked Captain Hilary Roding. 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. “Yes. Melusine, used to the stark surroundings of the convent at Blaye, had no complaint to make. She shut the door behind her. The wedding procession passed on, and the cynical rabble poured in behind.
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