His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. 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 swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night. “My husband!” she laughed a little derisively. He crawled underneath the covers with her. The water was cold but she waded deeper.
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