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. “Ciao, Fragolina. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion.
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