She studied the face and tried to visualize the body, clothed in the dress which had created the spinsters' astonishment. 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. As soon as he finished a sheet, he tossed it aside and began another. ‘Why do you stand there? Take him up, and bring him out at once. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. It is no good.
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