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. Come along, master. At any rate, I can see that you’re not protecting him at all. It was Blueskin. "Well, my pretty dears," he added, "—to see your husband, eh? You must make the most of your time.
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