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 cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. He liked to draw her in, and she did her best to talk. ” He adjusted his glasses on his nose. Watching her strip had been delicious for him, and a part of him enjoyed her self-consciousness acutely.
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