The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. She was consumed by misery and hate. Parbleu, but must she do this all through the house? Evidently she must, for not only could she not properly see the paintings and portraits that hung on the walls, but she was in imminent danger of bumping into the sheet-shrouded furniture. 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. Brendon was silent. "I think the natives saw you coming out of the lagoon, one dawn. To think of him as loving her would make all that different.
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