JONATHAN WILD. No, none at all. It seems that he was a sort of family friend of the Pellissiers, and it was the artist sister whom he was with. More than half the city perished. 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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