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. The momentary alarm over, he threw a piece of-wash leather over a bureau, so as to deaden the sound, and instantly broke it open with a small crowbar. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. I’m very resourceful, you know.
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