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. ” Michelle said. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies. But Darrell averted his head. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. "Yon's a dear man," said McClintock. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally.
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