One could go to him and tell him one loved him. He did not play golf, but took his exercise on horseback, which was also unsympathetic. 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. To reach it would be a most difficult undertaking.
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