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 was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. "Rather a devil," groaned her son, "to have done this. \"My parents. Before she put on her sun-helmet, she paused before the mirror. I have always loved you.
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