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. Why he paid so much attention to Sir James Thornhill may be explained anon. “Why should one pretend? “Think of all the beauty in the world that is covered up and overlaid.
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