"Oho!" he said. She must be beautiful, but beauty is only the beginning. The doctor nodded to him curtly. 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. She could not resist enduing persons she met with the noble attributes of the fictional characters.
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