Spurling. Lucy howled as tooth met bone, her arm clamped in the trap of Rhea’s huge canines. 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. Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal.
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