And to think that man got it all out of the poorest little love-story for a respectable titled lady! Have you read of it?” “Never. I'm a stickler about clothes and clean chins. ‘Now then, missie. ” Anna hesitated. “I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside. 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. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed.
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