Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill. She would end alone. He could not permit her to remain in that position. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat.
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