They are used to me, they only cry because they have become so used to being here. On this side a flight of wooden steps, protected by a hand-rail, led to a door opening upon the summit of the prison. 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. Jack Kimble.
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