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 studied her form in the full length mirror, assessed 69 her body as one would that of a prize calf, trying to see it through his eyes, through the eyes of desire. “Does it hurt?” Michelle asked. . ‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in. Wood's displeasure; and he was the more readily induced to do this, as the conversation began to turn upon his own affairs. Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the Mint. Wood fared still worse.
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