“And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. “I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said. 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. Words of encouragement and sympathy were addressed to Jack, who, as he looked around, beheld many a friendly glance fixed upon him.
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