Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round. Even your family. 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. Fresh flowers of loveliness have budded, expanded, died.
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