His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. ’ ‘Get going, then,’ Trodger told his men. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. I know something about men. 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.
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