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. “Couldn’t we three go out and have some coffee somewhere? The thought of that drawing-room paralyses me. The unknown, previously so attractive, now presented another face—blank. It isn’t pretty, but we’re made so.
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