Stanley was throughout enigmatical, with an anxious eye on her husband and Alice. “TROUSERS!” she whispered. ‘Must be still downstairs. He was not particularly grateful for the present situation. 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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