She listened with growing apprehension to the tale that Gerald told, omitting any mention of pistols and daggers, and at the end delivered herself of various expletives highly unsuited to a lady of her advanced years. Thank him, not me, man. I'm heading for bed. 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. In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. I wanted it badly. She did not wince. Time was moving so fast, she could no longer count the days since Gosse had come to her with his preposterous suggestion at the Coq d’Or, where they were staying and where he had robbed her and left her and Martha to their fate.
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