But that was all over. “I imagine,” Sir John said, “that your sister would acquaint him with it. “I think everything’s right,” said Ann Veronica, with the roaming eye of a capable but not devoted house-mistress. 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.
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