’ ‘Why must you?’ asked Gerald calmly. Not alone with her, that’s sure. 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. They were looking for a guide. “A number of beautiful things are not intense.
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