Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. 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 did not speak to John in the week of school left after the Prom. She must speak to Jack.
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