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. "And on my part, I shall not lift a hand to defend myself. ’ ‘Mercy me,’ gasped the nun. Lucy could see the resemblance of Martin to both of his parents as plain as day. The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute.
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