"No such thing," rejoined the jailer; "he's coming on business. 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. One day she had thrown all the gifts into the lagoon, and visited the secret nook no more.
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