Then they would leave and she would go back to being alone. “It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. Not alone with her, that’s sure. Her dainty shoes were soiled with dust and there was a great tear in her skirt. It was a purse. 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.
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