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Gianfrancesco was not ugly, in fact, perhaps he was rather handsome after all. She guessed Jack was having trouble finding the right piece of carving. 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. Great sport, eh? To haul them back from the ragged edge. She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen.
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