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. Voilà tout. " "Not I," replied Jack; "I'm too comfortable where I am. I didn't mean it. I never had even a real doll," she added, as she snuggled the flea-bitten head to her heart. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct.
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