He embraced her small body in his arms, kissing her forehead over and over. 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. ‘Except Captain Roding,’ agreed the old lady, nodding at the butler. Old Bedlam.
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