“What do you think of that?” he asked. He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. 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. She placed her kills near the Senewac City jail that summer, burying the remains in the forest preserves outlying Greene County. ‘We don’t know who she is. ” They were eating quails when they returned to the topic of love. . ” She looked at him, pleading, miserable in her fancy gown.
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