There has never been a white woman at McClintock's. All of a sudden, there was movement behind him. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. 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. " "Don't be angry with me, Sir," cried the widow, sobbing bitterly, "pray don't. ‘Shall we abandon the guard, then, sir?’ ‘Certainly not. But when it came to broaching them, it proved to be much more difficult than she had supposed. It’s—it’s a serious prohibition. Her blood spurted into his mouth and he drank. What sort of a standard of life yours may be I do not know, yet in your heart you know very well that every word you have spoken to me has been a veiled insult, every time you have come into my presence has been an outrage.
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