"I've been wondering, until this morning, if you were real. Sheppard," replied Winifred, advancing. ‘Jacques!’ He stopped, but he did not turn. They had been playing tennis, with his manifest intention looming over 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.
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