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. He had a blue overstuffed couch, his own television, even a computer with its own desk. "I've counted ten coffins so far. She shuddered. Your mother, for instance, couldn’t. He embraced her like her father once had. "Do you think I'd part with the sweetest morsel of revenge on those terms? No! But I'll have the secret out of you by other means. "Speak English?" boomed the voice.
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