’ Melusine sobered, sitting down again. 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. His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop. I didn’t know.
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