It was hot and dry. 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. ‘Never mind that now. If you love me, do not allude to this subject again. What more is there to be said? She defies me!” It was extraordinary.
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