"What do you want fot that coat, friend?" asked Jack, as he came up. He stopped short of a group of adolescent saplings and turned the ignition off. ‘You won’t get a thing out of her. Under this unnerving scrutiny, a slow flush mounted to the woman’s cheeks. 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. I don’t know anyone.
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