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. You are not with the Kent militia, are you?’ ‘West Kent, yes. Mere formality. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion.
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