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’s still bleeding. I can’t even carry a tune with a bucket. It might as well be Melusine herself. To-morrow I am going to Paris. Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian. ” “Out with it, then,” he cried, almost roughly. ‘If you care for me at all, shoot me.
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