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. The delay was only momentary. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like.
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