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The thought made her exquisitely happy. I may as well think. 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. Mr. I've a carriage within call shall convey you swiftly to town. “I do love you. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. The next weekend arrived and she made her decision.

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