Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. “I look older. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. 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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