He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface. . 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. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. "Stir a foot, at your peril. ’ ‘That’s fortunate,’ murmured Lucilla.
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