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. ‘Come,’ she called. . Before he even glanced at the man on the floor he stepped over to her side and took the poker from her. . Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. “Don’t we all rather humbug about the coarseness? All we women, I mean,” said she.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTI4LjIwNi40OCAtIDA5LTA2LTIwMjQgMDA6MTQ6NTggLSAxMjYwNTQ0MjQ1
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