“Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. “Lucy Albert. 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. "Can you pull him through?" was the anxious question.
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