“There are policemen—and buses. 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. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. The Widow and her Child. ” “But I’m quite equal to taking care of myself, aunt. “I have scarcely left his side.
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