And, yet, I don't know. Then he stood up and repeated it again. ‘Come, Hilary. If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum. 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. “Ask me nothing. I’ll protect you!” He cried.
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