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. She took his hand in hers. Ruth's eyes were wet, but she saw light everywhere: the room was filled with celestial aura. It’s just because all that side of your life hasn’t fairly begun. “I don’t see what else I could have said,” he remarked.
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