" "Spare him! spare him!" cried Mrs. 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. She helped herself to the remainder of the slightly congealed bacon, and reverted to the problem of getting her luggage out of the house.
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