A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. His build was medium, he would never 5 tower over his peers, yet his shoulders were broadening, betrayed by an undeveloped set of pectoral muscles underneath his button-down shirt that she could tell frustrated him. His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. 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. When Jeremiah admired the Compasses in the arms of the Carpenter's Company over the chimney-piece, or the portraits of the two eminent masters of the rule and plane, William Portington, and John Scott, Esquires, on either side of it, Solomon was lost in wonder. Voilà tout.
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