It frightened her to behold her heart and mind thus laid bare; but the chapter following would reassure her. His slightest move caused her infinite pleasure. 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. Must be plenty of work for you to do. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform.
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