An ugly flush stained his cheeks. Gosse cursed him finely, of course, but there was nothing he could do. ‘Where did you get that, miss?’ ‘It is the sword of monsieur le major. 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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