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. “You were going to answer it?” “Certainly not!” she said deliberately. Ramage admitted the force of that. Pramlay lived for amenities and the mellowed surfaces of things. It is perfectly intrusive of me, and I quite see that you must be sick to death of running into such an interfering busybody all the time.
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