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. He pulled away. Ten years of military life had taught him caution, but only strengthened a fearless zest for diving into any promising adventure with unalloyed enjoyment. Then, there's Mr. Lucy sat beside him. “Your great success has been my joy, our joy as well as yours. Who walked you home?\" Mike asked her, his voice tinged with jealousy, as she passed the garlic bread. “I am sorry. Her cheeks were aflame.
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