" "What is this to me, Sir?" said Trenchard, cutting him short. 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. “Oh good. As to his mother, I've no pity for her. So long. Of the women felons' rooms nothing has yet been said.
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