I killed him, Nigel. 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. I rarely set foot in London these days. "After all our pains we were near losing him, Sir Rowland. "I am Owen Wood, at your service. "This she-devil has got hold of the sack.
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