"Where is the boy?" demanded Sir Rowland. ” “Tolstoy is so good about this,” said Miss Miniver, regardless of her friend’s attitude. But it looked as if the boy was not going to be of much use. 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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