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. But she did not speak. Mike seemed visibly happier at her remark. For I still love her mother. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. "You speak English better than I do," said O'Higgins, as the coolies jogged across the bridge toward the gate.
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