" The Wastrel advanced. I have never been wrong about the sex of an unborn child. He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to. To find the incentive! But how? Thither and yon the idea roved, seeking the way. The knowledge breathed into her heart a satisfying warmth. “It’s okay. He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. ” “If you want anything,” he said, “or get into any trouble, wire me. 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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