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. Her naked body was an abomination of caked filth and sagging tubes for breasts. " But this difficulty was only overcome to be succeeded by one still greater. Not a scar but has its history.
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