"Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. I didn’t see everything last time. 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. You’re a lady. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself.
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