‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. 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. Rain pounded the tin roof,
and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private
91
chamber. Fancying they were alone, Sir Rowland threw aside his cloak, and produced a
heavy bag of money, which he flung upon the table; and, when Wild had feasted
his greedy eyes sufficiently upon its golden contents, he handed him a pocketbook filled with notes.
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This video was uploaded to desenez.net on 03-07-2024 11:28:35