It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. 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. “A bad thing for me when that legacy came. "Ay, indeed! And who may that be?" inquired his wife. Hogarth, and Mr. “Begin violence, and the woman goes under. Why, he can scarcely be twenty. ’ ‘It is true,’ insisted the lady.
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