And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. At last he took up his thoughts again: “I wonder if, some day, one won’t need to rebel against customs and laws? If this discord will have gone? Some day, perhaps—who knows?—the old won’t coddle and hamper the young, and the young won’t need to fly in the faces of the old. I know nothing about this affair, but some one has been burning documents. He hanged your first husband. He was tall and straight, and his expression was good. 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. ” The lady in black satin looked at the pile of luggage outside and hesitated.
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