Lucy looked about confusedly. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. ” The detective nodded. Madame shrugged. He could not contain his satisfaction, but chuckled, and rubbed his hands with delight. 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.
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