” “Not now. “They say there are spots on the sun. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit. 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. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment. This mitigated her remorse enormously.
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