“Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest. 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. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might. Amongst them was a revolver. I think too much about myself. You’re all dependents—all of you. But, here they are. “I have learned that.
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