" "Nonsense," returned Jonathan gruffly. 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 seriously, things are not so bad as you think. ‘He was very kind to me. I didn't think. “Oh my God, what if she’s dead?” More giggling. The room in which she sat was a portion of the garret, assigned, as we have just stated, by Mr. Such was the effect produced upon the passengers by his good looks and manly deportment, that few—especially of the gentler and more susceptible sex—failed to turn round and bestow a second glance upon the handsome stranger.
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