“Where are we going?” Lucy asked desperately as Michelle began to twitch with greater frequency. He reached the top floor and ran down the corridor to the little dressing room at the end where he had lost her before. 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's on the ragged edge.
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