His grey eyes burned under his shaggy eyebrows. 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. You are the one person I can understand and feel—feel right with. It isn’t as though I haven’t done well. Every home is a little recess, a niche, out of the world of business and competition, in which women and the future shelter. ” She laughed heartily, and became as suddenly grave. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants.
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