She had worried in fear that the excitement would be too much for him. 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. “I must take them,” she said, to help herself over her own incredulity. Jonathan threw open the street-door.
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