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. ” She shrugged her shoulders. ” “Do you think that it was wise of you, or kind to come?” she asked quietly. She was frowning, but it was evident that her initial fright had left her. There was no one to be seen.
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