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. She remembered him as a dull figure, a big man with a belly that was already showing fat under his fine scarlet clothes. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. It did not occur to her that save for some accidents of education and character they had souls like her own.
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