He had studied alchemy and astronomy, was a capable painter, and even wrote music. The black, meantime, began to ply his hammer, and speedily unriveted the chains. 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. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. “Listen,” she said. ‘Oh, you may come to me on any mission you like,’ uttered Mrs Sindlesham roguishly. “Is this a concession to Mrs.
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