The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. “But I don’t see,” said Ann Veronica, “just how it fits the present situation. He walked unsteadily towards the door. It tore her apart.
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