II. 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. And she was as shrewd as they come. It's right Nantz. “Never mind, old chap,” he declared. She rested for a half hour in heaven on earth, feeling herself drift in and out of sleep.
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