“I’m sorry, ma’am, to seem the cause of any disturbance, but this,” he pointed to Anna, “is my wife. ‘What are you going to do now, Gerald?’ He sipped his wine and shrugged. 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. ‘It is imbecile that you are.
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