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 aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. \"So did I. But the love of life prevailed over his fears. You are not going anywhere but to the Tredgold College. She had found two copies of the magazine and carefully cut out both photos.
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