You do not make me afraid like this. She had never been there before at that hour, in that light, and it seemed to her as if she came to it all for the first time. “Not a bit of it. “Why should it matter?” he said. 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.
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