I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. "Yes … but dreadfully tired. 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. A lovely, fetching girl. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended.
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