He spoke only when he saw the sing-song girl he wanted to buy. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. 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. He had been the one to dress her in the finest silks and brocades, and here she was, displayed for the world to see in 248 drugstore makeup and the uniform of an old schoolteacher.
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