The stain upon our family is only half effaced: I have sworn the death of the villain and his bastard, and I will keep my oath. He was perhaps forty-five years of age. 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. E. Melusine’s eyes blazed into his.
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