That night in his den he smoked many pipes. She would rend him limb from limb like a fiend if only she could move. 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. This incredible scene robbed him of the sense of locomotion. His expression became pained. And yet—I love you.
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