If he had got off, they might have hanged me, and welcome. 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. He stood on the top step for a moment, lost in deep thought. He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand.
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