There was a hint of tears in her voice. 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. "We'll do it. Until two hours ago she was as contented and as happy as a linnet. Even in her own sorry skin-and-bones state of wraithlike pallor and gray under eye circles she was drawing unwanted attention from would-be admirers. The day is already half over. Someone ought to be with him until the doctor arrives. She hadn't meant to ask anything for herself.
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