Oriental rugs adorned the sea of shiny hardwood floors, kept polished with an eye for detail that bordered on Japanese. She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. “I have made over seven hundred pounds in the last week,” he said. ” John greeted him. 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. “Shit happens, John. There!" Out of the dark unruffled sapphire of the lagoon came vertical flashes of burning silver, singly and in groups.
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