“I don’t think she will,” she said. " "A key!" exclaimed Wood eagerly. 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. The investigators should have thought to check inside the garbage can. A delicate flush of colour streamed into her cheeks. ‘Your niece, ma’am.
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