” “If you tempt me too much,” she said, after a silence, “I shall do it. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. 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.
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