She never expected to get her ladyship home alive. 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. She made me over. He has often told me that if he could play sober, he would go to America and reap a fortune. He's as savage and suspicious as the devil himself.
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