I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. \"Yes, I'd love to go. Did he talk a little when you took him into the city?" "No. You know—if you want freedom. '" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. Probably she mistook you; probably she thought you cared. 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.
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