"Where are you going?" she asked. She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. 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. “I don’t see why not,” he answered. " "Offer them my hearty thanks," replied Jack, waving his hand to the group, all of whom returned the salutation. Ben had scarcely adjusted his oars, when the gleam of a lantern was seen moving towards the bank.
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