“Annabel;” he moaned. I did not choose to mention my knowledge of this fact to your worthy father; but you may rely on its correctness. 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. But I don’t want to. That might happen on her birthday—in August.
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