"But your dreadful projects will recoil on your own head. 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. ” “Young? I am twenty-four. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her.
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