He thrust out a rhetorical hand. This one too she read. “Dreadful women, my dear!” said Miss Stanley. You're a queer lad. 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. But there is need for the proof that I am me, and that is what I look for.
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