We had better have it over. She would not be driven in by this persistent, sneaking aggression. But his astonishment would have been great indeed had he known that not even her father had ever caressed her, either with lips or with hands. 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. “I never saw Courtlaw with her—never heard her speak of him. What was the old tabby at? Unaccountably embarrassed, he cleared his throat. We’ll make short work of them.
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