The whole story of your relationship is a fabrication. And she defies me. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. 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.
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