“Generally gets here about seven. 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. After all, if one could wait twenty years or more in between bouts of lovemaking, one could certainly wait a few more days. That did not sound like the name the young man had offered in the tower of the water-clock.
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