There was a brief pause, a crowded pause, between them. But she was staring seaward and did not notice the offering. "Right," said the Master, "I didn't think of her. Charley Pevenill was our host. 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. I am sorry that I do not know any one in London.
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