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. . They had both been unsuccessful. “Look at our clothes,” she exclaimed, “and besides, the funny little proprietor has gone down himself to help it along. I will do all this not because I love you, but—because you are Anna’s sister.
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