"The poor young man!" she said. . This time, there was no doubt, she did not sleep. Answering him was agonizing. “She must look forward to Italy. 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. Sebastian looked up and stood. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. For a time it really seemed all-sufficient to her that she should love. Meantime, a change had taken place in the weather. C.
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