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. His thoughts, indeed, were too painful for utterance, and so acute were his feelings, that, for some time, they quite overcame him. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter. Every one looked at Anna. She met his older brother and played another short violin recital, much to the delight of 178 John’s immediate family.
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