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. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. He could scarcely blame her. Over here men drink because they are lonely; and when they drink too hard and too long, they wind up on the beach. He took her hand in his, raising it closer, and gently touched the maltreated skin. "I can escape to France.
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