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. Her courage and her presence of mind had alike deserted her. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong, I swear it. ” “Severely dampened? By what?” “By hope. He laughed to hide his uneasiness. Rowland," she added, in an altered tone, "I am certain I shall not live many days. I put your clothes out an hour ago.
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