He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. Miss Charvill. Life waits for us. It must be some days before you can arrange for her to make an identification. He seemed to be thinking hard. 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.
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