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 seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes. Now she knew why the soldiers had not caught him. Late in July he finished the fourth story. ’ ‘You ain’t never!’ ‘Back to your post, Trodger,’ ordered the harassed captain. . "That's well. Woof! What a dog.
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