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. Eventually her movements carried her to the little stand at the side of the bed. Stanley went on, “but there are things— there are stories about Ramage. Spurlock.
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