"Ruth, you must not come and sit on the threshold. ” She surveyed this sentence for some time before going on. Small wonder she had learned to be self-reliant. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. Say something. 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. “I think as I feel in a good humour it must be the latter. “So am I the jewel or the bug inside?” He smiled. She saw herself in very much Vivie’s position—managing something. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. A long chest under one of the windows was open, some of its contents dragged out and spilling onto the floor.
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