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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. Their flitting hands were always touching. She went to her bedroom, but she did not go to bed. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. “You MUST,” he said, “because of my depression.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 29-09-2024 05:27:15