Money was not necessary; indeed, it would have embarrassed all concerned. Dieu du ciel, what was it? She turned slowly, listening for the direction of the sound. 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. She put out her hands to avoid his embrace. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. I will lay them all at your feet.
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