He stood on the top step for a moment, lost in deep thought. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. He was roused from the stupor of despair into which he had sunk by the voice of Ben, who roared in his ear, "The bridge!—the bridge!" CHAPTER VII. “You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else. They will claim particular attention hereafter. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner.
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