This was the bitterest hour he had ever known. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. Then there was also the horse. 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. "Allow him that small grace," cried Wood. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. . But I'll tell you about him some other time. ” “I know,” said Manning, nodding gravely. Manning, “when I see beautiful things, or else I want to weep. " "Are you sure of that?" returned Winifred, looking uneasily at Jack.
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