But recently he had asked God to pile it all on him; and God had added this, with a fresh portion for Ruth. 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. “Certainly her voice is far more musical. "We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices.
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