My friend, I am only grieved that you of all others should have been so deceived. But of what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish. We’ll find a way to survive. The Master of the Mint. 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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