Jane was a smoldering auburn-haired Irish beauty who seldom spoke to anyone. But Darrell averted his head. 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. "The gentleman under the table," she answered. Her recent attitude towards him was undoubtedly a pose.
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