But here she met with a check. 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. “No, the only person I told before tonight was my mother and father. ‘You don’t mean to say she’s here?’ ‘Was,’ Gerald corrected. Jack had been touched in the morning, but he was now completely prostrated.
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