" "I have heard sailors use words like that, but I never knew what they meant. ‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. Her wings were oddly weak, but for all that she could fly. White assented. He never felt any need to explain himself. Now that she was his, to make or mar, she presented an extraordinary fascination. And it had not shocked her! It was this appalling absence of indignation that had put terror into her heart. 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. “Those were good.
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