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. “Now I’ll have what I want from you, wife. “What, you don’t think that you can afford it? Lucy, with your musical talent, you’ll get a full ride. . ’ Gerald could not suppress a grin. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing. Taking this for encouragement, her suitor proceeded still more extravagantly. “The man alone could supply any, and if he recovers sufficiently to say anything, what he would say would exonerate you.
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