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. The telegram dispatched, his obligation cancelled, Ah Cum proceeded homeward, chuckling occasionally. The overnight nervous strain began to tell; she became inattentive to the work before her, and it did not get on. To his astonishment and delight it yielded to the pressure, toppled over the ledge, and sank. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. Bird and have come hither. One would say she could try to —to prevent that her daughter will go to the convent.
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