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. We all get deceived sometimes. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. He smiled. His conscience, however, was entirely another affair.
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