” “There’s a sort of instinct of rebellion,” said Capes. 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. “I think that you are very dense. It was a moment of breathless interest to all engaged in the attempt. ” He looked at her intently. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping.
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