’ Hilary eyed him. 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. In the discussion there was the oddest mixture of things that were personal and petty with an idealist devotion that was fine beyond dispute.
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