Through no fault of her own. She had seen Mrs. The very blank, however, affected him more deeply than if it had been left. In his way he was critical. 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 embraced her small body in his arms, kissing her forehead over and over. The storm burst upon them in its fury.
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