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. "So much the worse," replied Jonathan, rising and taking a turn, as if uncertain what to do. “I knew you wouldn’t mind. Papa doesn't even care, but he just goes along with whatever my Mom says. "Do me the favour to seat yourself, Jack," said Sir James. The man had favoured him with a brief nod, but the girl had gone so far as to offer a tiny smile, and a look under her lashes with which not even Gerald, for all his scant interest in female society, could fail to be familiar.
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