Living’s just material. Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill. 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. We dine at seven-thirty.
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