I wouldn't have him see me in this state for the world. “Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. 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, like all your overbearing sex, you must have your own way. She could have kissed Cathy.
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