She was perfectly aware that the boy had gotten some sort of bug in his craw over her despite her sloppy, strange appearance. 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. “Don’t you understand, Nigel,” she said softly, “that it was precisely for this I have worked so hard. That's the way it goes.
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