He kept his keen eyes steadily fixed on Thames, as if awaiting to be addressed. 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. And this clear-visioned child had comprehended that only half the rogues were really ill. There were white men with families, a fine mission-house, and a club-house for cards and billiards. She was given a glimpse of his soul.
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