’ Melusine was beginning to fill with dread and a burgeoning of anger as the meaning behind his words began to penetrate. 13 Montague Street. 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. Kneebone, who began to feel sleepy, wound it up, and snuffed the candles.
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