No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. You were wide the mark, physically; otherwise you had him pat. Nothing could occupy her attention long today, unless it concerned her situation. 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. Priests and princes sought his knowledge of languages and philosophy and wantonly tried to throw themselves into his bed.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ0LjExMS44MiAtIDAyLTA3LTIwMjQgMDE6NTM6MjEgLSAzNjgxNjA3Mg==
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