“Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. . I was standing near Jack at that awful moment, and beheld the look Wild fixed on him. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre. 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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