Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore. 'Whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord;' that's my comfort. 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. Mike knocked on the door. Not only that, but he is here in London.
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