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. ” He took his place by her side, and they talked lightly of London, the shops and people. Then, naturally, I went on talking. Here again instinct guided her.
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