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. But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent. He had fallen off when trying to tie down his aluminum paint ladder. She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and baffling as the sea in doldrums. He groaned, much to Melusine’s relief.
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