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 shifted the pages together, rolled and thrust them under her arm. “I had those beautiful roses from you on my first night, and a tiny little note but no address. “So your father brought you here to live in the States?” John asked. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. Besides, you've secrets which must not be disclosed. ‘Lover’s tiff indeed.
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