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. . It is to take place to-night. I have brought disgrace upon you, and I haven’t been the right sort of wife at all. . The lips were straight and pale, the chin aggressive, the nose indomitable.
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