He would refuse to listen and absolve her unshriven. She felt she must get him talking upon some impersonal theme at any cost. A dissipated, loose-living man. 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 stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. ’ Melusine swung away and moved to stare dully out of the window of the little chapel vestry onto the mews outside.
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