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. “I want to ask you a question,” he said. ” “You disappoint me,” she said wearily. Probably something he had eaten. “We’ve all been mixing our ideas, and we’ve got intellectual hot coppers— every blessed one of us. He turned to observe what this object was that had so unexpectedly diverted the young man's attention. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle.
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