Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. Jonathan stepped behind a curtain. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. "You are, Sir," thundered Jonathan; "and, unless you find him, you shan't hold your place a week.
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