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 man looked closely at Anna as she crossed the footway, and as he held her skirt from the wheel he pressed something into her hand. I didn’t go out of my way or anything.
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