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" "Oh, no!" Ruth protested. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. "Put your arms about me. 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 moaned as she touched him. One comes at last to the step from dreams to reality. She felt anger at Sebastian, anger at the thrill that she felt in her loins upon seeing him, anger at herself for never having the courage to end her own life.
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