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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. And as a natural consequence, they don’t do so well, and they don’t get on—and so the world doesn’t pay them. You think you will. " "I see. ‘She’s little more than a schoolgirl, just out. Be so good as to let me pass, sir,” she added, looking her obstructor steadily in the face.
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