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He loved to sneak up and stand ten feet or so behind you and just. 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. 255 “You have a very talented son,” was her opening line. The boat in which he rode was not overset. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. ’ He threw one arm across his own chest and clapped himself on the shoulder.
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