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. Montague Hill. It's a bad omen to be thrown near that door. And she felt that if she went home it was imperative to pay. Now, for the cage, my pretty canary-bird.
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