“This isn’t furtive,” said Ann Veronica. One little minute with soap and water, voilà tout. "Those chops, fried potatoes, and buttered toast. 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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