1 through 1. 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. She felt a semi-sharp object being gently impressed into her back. Sebastian administered bitter tonics to her, fluids she could not taste with her swollen tongue. Consequences of the Theft X. Sheppard, eagerly. I couldn’t help the thought. That was one of the mysterious qualities of this child of the lagoon: she had always at instant service that Oriental mask of impenetrable calm that no Occidental trick could dislodge.
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