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. “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. All about her, hither and yon, lay the enticing Unknown. His hand went with an almost instinctive inquiry to his jawbone again. The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean. ‘When one is penniless, one does not expect a life of ease. I only arrived when everybody was coming away. . Neither of them joined in the applause which followed upon her exit.
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