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. For now, I fear there is something worse, something more present. She could not make up her mind which was the finer, more elemental thing, which gave its values to the other. “Oh, Michelle, I’m such a miserable fool.
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