There isn’t. 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. At length, he fell down on the road, fully expecting each moment would prove his last. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright.
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