” She looked at him, pleading, miserable in her fancy gown. If I'd been in the way, instead of Jonathan Wild, that accident wouldn't have happened. 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.
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