"Be silent," said Jonathan, striding deliberately into the room; "these cries will avail you nothing. Trust you. ” “I wish,” said Ann Veronica, with sudden anger, “that you could know what it is to live in a pit!” She stood up as she spoke, and put down her cup beside Miss Garvice’s. 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. Water poured into her eyes, nose, and mouth in a torrent from which she had to turn and wheeze. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. Have the goodness to affix your name to that memorandum, Sir Rowland.
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