Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. “I wish that I could forget it,” he said. But he has since acquitted you of any share in it. Ever since the young police officer had arrived on her doorstep the clock had started ticking faster. ‘And so?’ she asked. Could she go through with it? She must. She had been working upon a ribbon of microtome sections of the developing salamander, and he came to see what she had made of them. Immediately she had spoken of the loose button he knew that henceforth he must show no concern over the disposition of that coat. There was. 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. He felt that he was getting on with her very slowly indeed, but he did not see how he could get on faster. The three young men exchanged expressive glances.
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