As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. Building announced solemnly. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. He had spoken impressively, and most likely Anna, had she reappeared, would have met with a fair reception. After you went he got up and took refuge in the preparation-room. 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. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy. “Before this there was a sort of restraint—a make-believe. I fight. Before that came your father didn’t even know you were gone. If he wished, he could even take this inheritance from her.
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