This too shall pass. 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. It’s on the horse. But, perhaps, you'll first accompany me to my dwelling for a moment, that we may arrange our accounts before we start.
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