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. " Exclamations of wonder burst from all. “You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. She approached Ruth with open arms; and something in the way the child came into that kindly embrace hurt the older woman to the point of tears. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. You understand me, I’m sure.
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