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. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. “When are you going away?” He asked. You're in a more serious scrape than you imagine. Without you I should never have recovered either health or reason. Thank goodness there’s plenty of opportunity! And we two can talk. This one too she read. During the foregoing occurrences a dead calm prevailed. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. Wood was not particularly fortunate in his own matrimonial connections.
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