His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. “Oh, please. “But if my manner tells! I cannot help it if that shows. 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.
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