The girl was flushed with excitement, bright-eyed, and braced for a struggle; her aunt had never seen her looking so fine or so pretty. But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent. See paragraph 1. 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. She was leaning over him and he smelled her like he had never smelled anyone before. A deep roar followed this order, and several missiles were launched at the vehicle, which was driven off at a furious pace. Well, I don't blame you on that ground.
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