“No doubt about that, I fancy,” Meddoes answered lightly. “The Widgetts,” she said. 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. There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman. "That is good. Yes, I think we have thoroughly thrashed that one out.
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