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. “I am sure, Anna,” she said, “I do not see why we should conceal the truth from you. it’s open. "Ay. She turned out the electric light and gained the hall. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard.
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