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. . She tried for her usual confident tone, but only succeeded in sounding gruff, even to her own ears. They were just nice. Perhaps I've been mad all these years; I don't know. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. It was the size of my palm. "Your name is Spurlock?" "It is. " "I'm afraid I don't understand.
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