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I owed his father a grudge: that I settled long ago. 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 wholly in my power. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. “Please go and see that—nothing happens,” she pleaded. “I wonder if there is anything wrong with my manners,” she said.
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