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. This obstacle, which appeared to preclude the possibility of egress in that quarter, was speedily got rid of. Gold-handled, too. She may address me as “Grandfather” if she chooses, since I’m obliged to accept her in that capacity.
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