Yield up the babe, and I pledge my word you shall remain unmolested. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. All that he had sown that afternoon with such infinite care was as nothing compared to this seed, cast without forethought. 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.
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