The rooks were cawing amid the boughs, and all nature appeared awaking to happiness. 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. Water soaked her through in five minutes. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog.
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