“You will have some tea?” she asked. ’ ‘I don’t want to think it,’ he said, and she thrilled to the savagery in his tone. 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 passed, and came loitering back and stood beside her, silently looking into her face. Gianfrancesco had been talked into the arrangement only because the drivers that had handled the job for generations were sick or dead. I can’t even carry a tune with a bucket.
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