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" "Who cares if we do?" retorted Sheppard, with a look of defiance. 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. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. ” “I thought I was old enough,” she gasped, between laughter and crying. She shut her lips hard, her jaw hardened, and she set herself to struggle with him.
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