But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way. 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 comes to this—am I to be trusted to take care of myself, or am I not?” “To judge from this proposal of yours, I should say not.
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