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. His perseverance was amply rewarded. “I can survive on my own. Every care had been taken of it, as well as of himself, by the humane inmates of the house in which he had sought shelter.
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