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. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. ‘Silence,’ he warned again, with a prod of the dagger at her heart. On his third visit to the island she had surprised him, that is, she had glanced up suddenly and caught the look of the beast in his eyes. ’ ‘I didn’t bring him,’ Gerald returned swiftly.
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