"Is it you?" "It is," replied Sheppard, as he untied the cords. I don’t want to hear you. " "The very idea is dreadful," whimpered Edgeworth Bess. "He has not the power—perhaps not the will to do so. 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. Her voice shook, her eyes were very soft and melting. But eventually Spurlock laughed.
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