A vast relief filled Spurlock's heart as he decided to tell this man everything which related to Ruth. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. 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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