He wiped the sweat from his chin and forehead. 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. “Want to see Mr. Jonathan Wild's House in the Old Bailey XVII. She is no more English than that set of beggars over there.
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