‘We were wondering about that. 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. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. . Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. "Raise your vice, and lave off coughin'," added Terence. ” “It isn’t necessary,” they both declared breathlessly. But never had the hand touched her with a father's caress; never had he taken her into his arms; never had he kissed her. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. To divide the agony into two spheres so that one would mitigate the other.
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