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. Some one may observe us. "What the devil are you howling about?" cried Langley. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. Nobody can trust you. ’ ‘Are we to infer that he had a choice?’ enquired Gerald. It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities. But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb.
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