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. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. We are off for a second honeymoon. Sheppard, somewhat alarmed by this preamble. The figure of the girl upon it in plain black dress, standing with her hands behind her, was an undeniable and astonishing likeness of herself. He was disquieted. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. Stanley, and was so evidently pleased that Ann Veronica’s heart smote her.
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