‘Melusine…Melusine. Sheppard. 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. His face brightened at the sight of her, and he came toward her. You wish another name? Eh bien.
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