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. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. Meantime the spinsters sought the dining room where tea was being served. For the first time he seemed to wonder what it might be that she had to confess. ’ ‘I’m not going to release you, so it’s no use complaining.
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