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. " Miserably his thoughts shuttled to and fro in search of what he knew she wanted —a love story. He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction. I warned her not to say a word, for it would mean the death of everyone in the Palazzo, including you. .
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