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. Thankfully, he seemed pleased the moment he saw her face, which her mother had made her wash for weeks with the pulp of apples, orange water, and 21 extract of borage among other things. “You cannot! Oh, you cannot. I’m sorry to hurt your feelings. But it seemed that their presence was not even suspected. ’ He slid slowly down and collapsed to the stone floor, fainting dead away.
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