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. No; the future was not so dark; there was a bit of dawn visible. If this success continued, it would be easy to assume the name of Taber. I just want him, and no one else will do. She and I were very close. Maggot, dealing him a blow, which stretched him senseless on the floor.
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