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. ‘Either you tell me why you want the wretched animal, or it stays here. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman.
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