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 I have said, it was a quarrel between the vicomte and Monsieur Charvill. His face changed and she saw, with a stab at her heart, the dawning of irritation in his eyes. I don’t! Please enlighten me. Miss Miniver learned of her flight and got her address from the Widgetts.
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