" "All right. 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. As a matter of fact it isn’t their affair. He glanced at his watch. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. The hangman is always an object of peculiar detestation to the mob, a tremendous hooting hailed his appearance, and both staves and swords were required to preserve order. Arriving at the chapel, their wonder increased. “I’ll go,” he said, “but I warn you that I shall find you out. Love!” He held her arm and abandoned it again at her quick defensive movement.
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