C. Too intent on her search, and convinced besides that she was quite alone, she had been an easy prey. And the woollen-draper departed. 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. “That beast of a fellow is certain to be hanging about.
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