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. “It’s the centre of the intellectuals. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. His hair had begun to gray, his belly had just begun to round. See, it is on my cards—M. . “Miserable bounder,” he murmured.
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