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. You'll be answerable for his escape. She opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floor with her chin resting upon the window-sill. She met him by the dugout after the game. A crisis of some kind was toward.
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