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. He would have to sit down here in Canton and wait, perhaps for weeks. ’ ‘But where? Where has he gone? Always he goes off, and he says no word to anyone. But while there's life there's hope. He reached for her chin and lifted it up. It was most amusing.
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