Manning relinquished his cup, and looked meaningly at Ann Veronica. 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. “You are one of the Hampshire Pellissiers, I know, and your family are quite as good as ours.
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