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. It was not that the servants could not, they simply preferred to. Sheppard superior to her station. People, nobody, can do as they like in this world. His head turned sideways towards the noise, his brows scowling. Diane, more than a little envious of the girls’ youthful excitement, set Michelle's curfew at 10:30. Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly.
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