He drew compellingly upon his new characters to keep him out of this melancholy channel; but they ebbed and ebbed; he could not hold them. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. He returned her impressive greeting almost mechanically. His first inquiries were concerning the child, and he was delighted to find that it still lived and was doing well. I know he is dead. 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.
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