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. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. " "I am calm—quite calm, Rowland," she answered, with lips whose agitation belied her words.
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