There were two. 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. “Forgive you, indeed. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you’re unripe and half-educated.
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