Drummond,” he continued, looking across at his vis-à-vis, “we look to you to give expression to our sentiments. “You haven’t seen him in three hundred years?” He asked. 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. ‘Again?’ Another simple parry.
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