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. He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed. “Much as I hate rows, I’ve either got to make a stand or give in altogether. ” “Come, Molly,” said Mr. D'ye hear how the wanes creaks on old Winchester House? We shall have a touch on it ourselves presently. The low ceiling made him seem abnormally tall. Strange, I shouldn't know him when he called on me. What’s that?” They both stood listening.
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