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. “Are you speaking to me?” she asked calmly. For an instant, Gerald wished the rest of the world away that he might go to her and administer appropriate comfort.
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