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. Melusine did not try to fight her captor, for that would only make him angry. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. “I have made no arrangements as yet— none at all. And meanwhile, we’ll just have these no doubt potentially lethal little claws of yours out of harm’s way. Always as black and bitter as gall. . ” Sebastian drove on.
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