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. It would have saved me much circumlocution, and you some suspense. See? You marry me. For five days The Tigress chugged her way across the burnished South China, grumpily, as if she resented this meddling with her destiny. Goodbye.
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