"Done!" cried Shotbolt. 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. The funeral, it has just been said, took place on that day. "Hist!" exclaimed Jack. “Life’s so queer,” she said, kneeling and looking into the flames.
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