Then she passed from the room on the arm of General Lord Charvill, chatting animatedly to him. He quickly responded to her kiss and grasped her to him, kissing her deeply. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. “I should like to speak to you for a few minutes,” he said to Anna, dropping his voice a little. 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.
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