Do you know, I envy you. ’ ‘Of what use to be ladylike when I cannot be a lady?’ ‘None of that. Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek. 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. "But never mind who, or what I am.
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