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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. ‘Imbecile. Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. ‘Don’t involve me in your lover’s tiff. ” “Perhaps,” she said, “I am superstitious. I almost wish we hadn't come.

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This video was uploaded to ineel.net on 25-06-2024 20:26:01

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