"There never is any one in the mill, surely!" exclaimed Mary, as the
sea of upward-turned faces moved with one accord to the eastern end,
looking into Dunham Street, the narrow back lane already mentioned.
The western end of the mill, whither the raging flames were driven
by the wind, was crowned and turreted with triumphant fire. It sent
forth its infernal tongues from every window hole, licking the black
walls with amorous fierceness; it was swayed or fell before the
mighty gale, only to rise higher and yet higher, to ravage and roar
yet more wildly. This part of the roof fell in with an astounding
crash, while the crowd struggled more and more to press into Dunham
Street, for what were magnificent terrible flames--what were falling
timbers or tottering walls, in comparison with human life?
There, where the devouring flames had been repelled by the yet more
powerful wind, but where yet black smoke gushed out from every
aperture--there, at one of the windows on the fourth story, or
rather a doorway where a crane was fixed to hoist up goods, might
occasionally be seen, when the thick gusts of smoke cleared
partially away for an instant, the imploring figures of two men.
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