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. He took a handful of almonds and raisins that she held out to him—for both these young people had given up the practice of going out for luncheon—and kept her hand for a moment to kiss her finger-tips. The Master of the Mint was accompanied by another gentleman almost as portly as himself, and quite as deliberate in his movements. “You do not know what such a relation means. ‘Yes, that is reasonable. She observed the tides, amazed by how high the water could rise, almost touching the tops of the cliffs. . ” “I am convinced of it,” she answered. “In a sort of beautiful garden-close—wearing lovely dresses and picking beautiful flowers?” “Ah! If one could!” “While those other girls trudge to business and those other women let lodgings.
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