” She breathed relief. “Of course. 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. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. ‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding.
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