Lad, I admire you even in your folly. 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. “As a matter of fact, I deserve to. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me. ‘Because he knows you for an imposter,’ Melusine flashed.
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