Firmly built, as it was, the bridge creaked in such a manner with their contending efforts, that Abraham durst not venture beyond the door, where he stood, holding the light, a horrified spectator of the scene. “Because I hate you!” She spat. Yet her hands dropped, and she sighed deeply. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. “Thank Heaven, they are bringing the hors d’oeuvres. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. His literary instincts began to stir.
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