” “I ought to have—all the same. He caught the smirk. Tell me how are you amusing yourself?” Anna laughed. 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. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. "Another moment, and it'll be too late. She winked at him as he shut the door. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms.
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