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. She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and baffling as the sea in doldrums. He's a hundred miles sou'-east of me. "I'm sorry," she said.
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