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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. Her husband quickly joined the fray, making her giggle and laugh. “In private. "But be prudent, my angel. . "What's that to you?" demanded Jonathan, gruffly. I always thought Mrs. ‘No, let me guess,’ he interrupted. This is a joke of yours. She had agonized over it for weeks.
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