Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. It was at his side below the breast, hidden by the dark colour of his close-fitting jacket. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. I know my son's voice too well. The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course. The carpenter trembled; for he perceived Rowland's gaze fixed first upon the infant, and then on himself.
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