"I might return the question. That would come later. One or the other. 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. Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. I am bored to distraction. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand.
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