“Love should be enough, John, but it never is. Suddenly Anna felt her hand seized and imprisoned in Courtlaw’s burning fingers. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. 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. From time to time, however, he was baffled. Wood fancied he recognised. "Drink this," cried Jonathan, handing her the cup. I love him!" She was weak and dizzy: from horror as much as from physical exertion. Tonight Lucy doled out outré physiological theories of boys and their overactive hormones. “What do you mean?” Lucy asked.
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