It reverberated in the silence. ‘I can’t think how I’ve tolerated myself all these years. 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 had found that proof. " "I'm not afraid, mother," said the little girl, smelling at the bouquet. ” She knelt upon the floor of her cell and clasped her hands, and remained for a long time in silence. “Life’s so queer,” she said, kneeling and looking into the flames. She turned there and beckoned. It was her past now, not Annabel’s.
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