There was only one prisoner in the ward. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. 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. He had to know the truth, Melusine. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. “Hey, John. “But I still think of my old foster brothers and sisters. I wonder.
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