Jolly hard life for a girl, getting a living. 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. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. I am gambling on his intuition.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 15-05-2024 00:33:23
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