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. “I am bored,” she said abruptly. The fellow is little better than a lunatic. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. To her chagrin, he ignored her, and turned a venomous eye on his betrothed. "Beg pardon," he said, "but isn't smoking allowed in the dining room?" "It probably is," answered Prudence, "but that in no wise mitigates the odiousness of the procedure. " Sheppard's name operated like magic on the crowd. "I never had a pet. After that night she made it a habit. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe.
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