“Of course,” she said diffidently, “this is a boarding-house, although we never take in promiscuous travellers. Her gaze flickered down to his pistol. ‘Don’t involve me in your lover’s tiff. 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. Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. That’s the fact about them.
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