He had not had time to aim the pistol. “I wonder,” he said, “if women do know things by instinct? I have my doubts about feminine instinct. 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. She attended to that, and then dismissed it as unimportant. "Is my house to be made a receptacle for all your natural children, Sir? Answer me that.
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