She had thought to wear it now, since she must look more the demoiselle. 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. But, though I cannot reward you, Heaven will. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine.
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