"Take it," cried Wood, holding the infant towards her; "take it, and fly. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. 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. The change will come to-day. I know that in my heart I would take whatever he gave.
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