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. Yet I shall think of you to-day. Analysis would come later, when the primitive conscience, satisfied, would cease to dominate his thought and action. ” Ennison turned round sharply. As a matter of fact, I had never spoken to him before in my life.
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