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. ‘Please to sit, monsieur. This costume, though somewhat extravagant, displayed his slight, but perfectly-proportioned figure to the greatest advantage. I shall count it a privilege. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. ” “Ugh! That poor girl! What a horrible guy! Did he?” “Yeah, it was his. It cost her seventy-seven dollars. I ought to stay the night through; but I'm late now for an operation at the hospital.
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