But this was long ago. “Damn”. The door is open, so it is needless to ask leave to enter. 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. ‘Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ ‘Nothing, merci, I do not remain,’ she answered, although she did not rise. She wondered if the second part would overcome his objections? Several times the words had rushed to her tongue, to find her tongue paralysed. For a pity, she has chosen to remain, and it has been her death. She stood looking down upon him with dilated eyes. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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