But you must tell her. Would to God I had. 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. His lips parted in a rare smile. She leaned over and kissed his cheek innocently. But to live at peace with your neighbour…. You do not love your husband, you have married him for a position —to escape from—things which you feared.
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