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. Lucy felt her heart splinter in her breast. How Jack Sheppard was again captured. He placed his chin upon the top of her head. You have been to me like a mother, not only a wetnurse. It was after all a momentary affair.
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