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. 48 <6> THE FRIDAY NIGHT SHOW The air was chill and the sky overcast and misting. ’ For the moment I thought it was a telegram from Gwen. Dear me, what a nuisance it is to have a pseudo husband shot down upon one from the skies. Those awful chairs!" After dinner the spinsters proceeded to inscribe their accustomed quota of postcards, and Ruth was left to herself.
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