Earles said persuasively. When she awoke, she felt sick, her mouth still salty with blood. 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. The Matriarchate! The Lords of Creation just ran about and did what they were told. She was clear there were no other minds like them in all the world.
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