The period of repression was over. 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. The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses. She is English, and apparently in some distress. "It only leads to the fencing crib," replied Wild.
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