“I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. 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. ” “And you can’t?” “I don’t think I ought to control myself.
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