” The girl nodded. 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. “I don’t see that his being a good sort matters. Even now he was not at all sure that she was not playing with him. As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats. ‘Though we might have done, if a certain addlepated clothhead hadn’t let her get away. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. Section 1.
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