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. That place was closed by the police last month. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. ” “I don’t care. I have fulfilled my part of our marriage contract. Here she seems to have developed into a brilliant woman with more character and steadfastness than I should ever have given her credit for. “You asked me in to tea,” he protested.
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