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. We shall take an eternal farewell of each other. “I know that our social order is dreadful enough,” he said, “and sacrifices all that is best and most beautiful in life. ” She kissed him passionately, and ran lightly upstairs.
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