She ran 60 past it with melancholic dread towards the slope that led to the ocean. She still could not muster the strength to leave. It was not only that her father had said all sorts of inconsistent and unreasonable things, but that by some incomprehensible infection she herself had replied in the same vein. 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. It was time to leave America. That’s about the beginning. This was a much more serious task than he anticipated. “Think of that check you endorsed. “John,” she said, “I am afraid that I am going to make you unhappy.
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