“Call me Annabel. “John?” He turned around in the recliner. 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. “You doubted me?” She joked. She just sat and told me that was her arrangement. She has power over men’s fates in more ways than one. I have come to you for sympathy, perhaps for help.
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