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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. . He called it "The Man Who Could Not Go Home. I deal with the Malay mostly; but twice a year I visit islands occupied by the true blacks, recently cured of their ancient taste for long-pig. Ann Veronica felt no repulsion at the prospect. I just don’t know where to start. Only a son’s another story.
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