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The doorbell tinkled and Michelle grabbed her purse and rushed down the creaky wooden stairs. 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. Even then she had understood vaguely that she had touched upon some philosophy of life: that one was never lonely when alone, only in the midst of crowds. —There, Mr. “Forgive me,” he said. His spirits began to rise. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact.

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