‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint. 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. He stepped out but, rather to his surprise, found Melusine following him. His face was that of a quick, intelligent-looking boy, with fine hazel eyes, and a clear olive complexion.
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