" "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. Of course, I can't promise you the job definitely. It was horrible. "No," replied Jack. 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 Spurlock was ever on guard, even when she fussed over his hair. ” “You—you did what?” Anna exclaimed. It was scarcely likely that she would have accepted his aid.
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