Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. His head turned sideways towards the noise, his brows scowling. 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. ‘Here we go again. ” It was her last evening in that wrappered life against which she had rebelled.
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