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. One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object. She felt her heartbeat accelerate until it was pounding her chest. And I have no doubt at all that there is a great deal of money in the case. They seemed the most wrapped things in all Ann Veronica’s wrappered world.
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