” The detective nodded. " He stuffed the printed chintz into her arms and smiled into her eyes. “I’m not in the mood right this instant. 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. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her.
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