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. She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat. "He has it, and will ever have it," replied Mrs. A tarnish of constraint that had recently spread over her intercourse with Capes vanished again. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. It was really very jolly to talk to a man in this way—who saw the woman in her and did not treat her as a child. I was his wife.
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