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. In that sense, my strategy worked. " "And were I in yours," rejoined the woollen-draper, "I should be doubly apprehensive, because he's a professed friend.
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