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. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. You know how stubborn they get. About halfway across this interval, when everything seemed going well, Capes had a shock.
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