“Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly. 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. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. Wood," said Jonathan, advancing towards him, and speaking in a low tone, "the secret of your adopted son's birth is known to me. Something in his tone pinched her heart.
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