"Bury her in Willesden churchyard, as she requested, on Sunday," said Jack. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. Gods! what it must be to pour out strong, splendid verse—mighty lines! mighty lines! If I do, Ann Veronica, it will be you. You promise me you’ll never grow old, you hear?” “I promise. " Thames turned away at the question, which he felt might be construed into a reproach. 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. However, no one had discovered me, so I contrived to drag myself to my horse.
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