‘How do you like England?’ ‘People have been very kind,’ Valade said, answering for them both. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. His face brightened at the sight of her, and he came toward her. 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. Stanley. Her breath came fast in little sobbing pants.
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