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” Anna handed her a bracelet she had made out of string and macaroni. Courtlaw rose to his feet. 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 don’t mind if I sit down?’ She considered him a moment, her head a little on one side. Giles's round-house on my own responsibility.
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