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. Not that it would make any difference if he was alive still. " Quitting the night-cellar, the trio soon arrived at the riverside. On the Day he had trumpet-like outbreaks of cordiality, varied by a watchful preoccupation.
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