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. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. And this was an adventure of which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South Seas.
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