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. "I am glad you think that," she replied. Marvel, who had been a little discomposed by the treatment he had experienced on Holborn Hill, very composedly filled and lighted his pipe. . "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on.
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