“Broddick is a heavy man,” he was saying, “and the main interest of the play was the embezzlement. His noble Florentine roots went back a thousand years, to the days of grand Rome herself. “Do you want to ruin me? I shall walk back. “My dear man,” she exclaimed, “wasn’t that a foregone conclusion?” “You treat the matter lightly,” he continued. Oh, I know. I will lay them all at your feet. I've been thinking about it ever since morning. 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. But this time she wanted nothing for herself: she wanted something for Hoddy—success.
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