“Dyed!” “And your figure?” “One’s corsetière arranges that. . He turned to Mrs. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. She smiled. You will not have to wait long for the information. 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 looked at it with a little shudder, but she made no motion to take it. Here it is.
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