It is useless to trace out her miserable career; though I can easily do so if you require it. 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. Each time a daughter had been born to him he had concealed his chagrin with great tenderness and effusion from his wife, and had sworn unwontedly and with passionate sincerity in the bathroom. The meat was coarse and disagreeably served. He had been quite right to sit down. Then, I thought, she has repented, all will be well. To-night I locked up my flat at six o’clock. She spotted her opportunity.
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