I’ve made no mention of guns and daggers or, indeed, any of the more exciting aspects of the business. They sat in the front row. He waved an arm and spoke with a peculiar resonance. But he was wide awake. 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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