“I’m not a good woman. ” “You are sure that he asked for me—not for Annabel?” “Certain,” Courtlaw answered. "I swear it," rejoined Jonathan, readily. He drove it into her missionary style, and though he was worried about hurting her, he could not stop himself from thrusting into her deeply. 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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