She dressed rapidly and left the theatre without a word to any one. 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. "Well, what can you expect, guzzling poison like that? Are you returning with us to Hong-Kong in the morning?" "No.
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