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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. He kissed her lightly on the lips. But his lips were honourlocked. "I tell you what, Mr. His employer retreated into the further apartment, leaving the door ajar.
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