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. “You don’t propose, do you,” she said quietly, “that I should take this man for my husband?” “You can drive him away,” Annabel cried. Hear me, adorable girl! You know not the extent of my devotion.
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