She seemed to assume that it must certainly be something she had said. She wrapped a leg around him. 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. ‘Certainly I am not a nun. ’ ‘What husband?’ ‘Precisely. Alors, one must steel oneself.
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