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. “Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?” Annabel laughed scornfully. She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert. “It’s the centre of the intellectuals.
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