Do not remain with me. 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. Jonathan smiled contemptuously. Even now he was not at all sure that she was not playing with him. ‘Tell me, my boy. One or the other. “If only her sister is half as pretty, no wonder that she has set the Parisians talking.
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