“If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. She pushed the former and it opened. I love you more. 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. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random.
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