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. " "I hadn't thought of that. . . At least I imagine so, if what Madame Valade claims is true. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. It did seem germane to the matter that so many of the people “in the van” were plain people, or faded people, or tired-looking people. Mr. Wild," said the turnkey, trembling in every joint. No offence, I hope.
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