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 with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. So here is your chance, Mademoiselle Charvill. She knew now that he never would. "Ah!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish.
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