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” “Why should I? I have told you that I do not wish for acquaintances in London. 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. You want to think for a time, to be free for a time. Good riddance. He stepped in with a heavy foreboding of calamity.
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