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. All three, then, burst into an immoderate fit of laughter. She was new, unlike any other woman he had met in all his wide travel. Holcroft, we may have been mistaken.
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