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. “I do. "Yes; and I hope you'll take ample vengeance upon him," said Quilt. That he was hot and breathless was of no matter; in that moment he would have faced a dozen Samsons. "Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper.
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