Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. While he was thus standing, the flames of his house, which made the whole street as light as day, and ruddily illumined the faces of the mob below, betrayed him to them, and he was speedily driven from his position by a shower of stones and other missiles. Her courage and her presence of mind had alike deserted her.
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