I met her when we were both very young, as young as you are. “We are Mr. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. She entered and approached the bunk. ‘Ah, non,’ exclaimed the husband. He drew her to him with his hands upon her waist. He had spoken impressively, and most likely Anna, had she reappeared, would have met with a fair reception. 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.
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