Too much, perhaps. Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. 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. They send you every good wish. ‘Who’s this, then? Not soldiers again. At this moment, his quick ears detected the sound of footsteps on the stairs. I don’t believe in the faults. I often wonder why the young always take us ancients for nambypamby creatures. She’ll tell everyone soon, if only to gain herself some attention!” He cried under his breath.
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