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. “I am too much in earnest,” he answered, “to be able to take this matter lightly. My dress, my person will be minutely described. She delighted in frustrating him.
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