” “For a little time,” she answered. "Let us in," said the Master, rapping his truncheon authoritatively against the boards, "or we'll force an entrance. 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.
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