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. ’ For a moment or two there was dead silence in the parlour. "So he may," rejoined Abraham, aloud, "so he may. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. He went on. In the genuinely dissipated face there was always a suggestion of slyness in ambush, peeping out of the wrinkles around the eyes and the lips.
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