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238 < 30 > IN BED John drove her home after school nearly every day. He returned to attend the funeral. 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. "Is there anything wrong with it?" "Wrong? Why, you have been imposed upon somewhere.

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