. 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. After the sights he would have to twiddle his thumbs until the joints cracked. A good woman’s mind has angels with flaming swords at the portals to keep out fallen thoughts.
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