I am on my way to an aunt who lives in Hartford, Connecticut. “Where were you?” He inquired, rubbing her shoulders. 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 helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side. “We don’t pretend. . There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present.
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