Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. Even Blueskin looked on with anxiety. . 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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