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. Once he had managed to stake his claim, she would have all to do to prove her identity and win it back. “I suppose I should let go if I had. ” “Well, you can’t say you’re a failure there,” Lady Lescelles remarked, smiling. “I’m next, Mr. “The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he remarked. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. “Gellett,” he called, “just come and clear up a mess, will you? I’ve smashed some things.
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