Once more he was the searcher. “Ciao, Fragolina. 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. Take that box, and put it into the carriage yourself. She shuddered. I didn’t understand.
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