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. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. He daren't quarrel with me: and if he does, let him look to himself. "Has no man ever kissed you?" "No. And if you mean that he may have reconciled himself with his own father, you waste your breath. He would take her with great force. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. " The lad made no answer, but left the room. Love—admiration for your matchless beauty alone sways me.
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