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. All her life Martha had been there. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. In response to an almost imperative gesture from the nurse, Anna laid her hand upon his.
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