I wanted to talk to you before when you first came to live here two years ago, but I never did. Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible. 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. And yet, the doctor recalled an expression of the girl's: that it was not a dissipated face, only troubled. Ever since the young police officer had arrived on her doorstep the clock had started ticking faster. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon. Through a blur of tears Ruth followed the rocking light until it vanished. Mr. Our quarrel's quite over.
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