But the love of life prevailed over his fears. 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. “We’ll go to a place where we can have a private room,” he said. "What do you mean by that, sirrah?" cried Wood, reddening with anger. E. Tom Sheppard was always a close file, and would never tell whom he married. I'm no great judge of these articles, Ma'am; but I trust to your honour not to palm off paste upon me.
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