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. ’ ‘But tell,’ demanded Melusine impatiently. He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. . Melusine crossed to open it, and immediately the knocking intensified in volume. He stabbed into her with brute force. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house.
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