She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. I acted in plays, I studied philosophy, mathematics, and science. "How do you know that?" rejoined Jack. 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've seen many a clever cracksman, but never one like him.
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