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. Gerald’s judgement was borne out a moment later. How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. One always dreamed of this and never believed it. ’ ‘You’re going to break into the house? You’re mad.
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