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. "But, perhaps, he has not got beyond the room above. Why open my mouth if there might not be a need for it when all’s said?’ Melusine acknowledged the logic of this.
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