Our ideal had fallen. 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. But before the child could be committed to her care, it was wrested from the carpenter by Rowland. But if only you will come I do not care.
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