I don’t care. 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. "Don't you know me, mother?" "Ah!" shrieked Mrs. I shall count it a privilege. There was no keeping Sheila from the truth, and it was better that anyone who lived under her roof knew it. Ruth did not resent the use of her mind and body in this tale of adventure. She could hardly remember his face except for his brown hair, thick lips, and narrow dark eyes.
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