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. T' other gen'l'man said the letter 'ud explain all. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. You must let me take you to things—to meetings and things, to conferences and talks. I don’t mean I’m not a good woman—I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman. Things seem to come rather easily.
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