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. But about the unknown Englishman she was not so satisfied. She would never, never go back. You are afraid of the warmth in your blood. To these she added the wine and spirits directed, and when all was arranged looked inquisitively at her master. Manning and the men in “fixed” positions generally that she knew, Ramage, presented by himself, had a fine suggestion of freedom, of power, of deliberate and sustained adventure.
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