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. Anna, who had thrown aside her sealskin coat, wore a tight-fitting walking dress of some dark shade. "What is it you want?" she asked, as she held out the coat.
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