Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. I’m going to tell you things plainly. So I come round the other way and—Lordy, miss, I’m that sorry I made a mull of it. " "Very well. 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. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self.
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