” “I am sorry,” said Ann Veronica. 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. There had been fusses and scenes dimly apprehended through half-open doors. ” She laid her fingers upon his arm, and they both stood still. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them.
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