That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. I cannot go on. "'Sdeath!" cried Jonathan, staring at the breach in the wall. 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. But before he could say anything, the vehicle rolled to a halt.
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