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. See what you have made of me. ‘You see,’ he pursued blandly, ‘I lead a life of the most intolerable boredom. The weed was all right.
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