She had once reconciled in her mind that she was happy as long as she had him. “I wonder why I am always hungry nowadays. 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. He had fallen off when trying to tie down his aluminum paint ladder. ’ ‘Ain’t it? Want me to give you some time with her? Not that I think she’ll tell you anything. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of defence, with the child in his arms.
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