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. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. He yelled at the girls for neglected to hand Lucy a pair of shorts or a sweater while they stood around in shock. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. " "But, Mac. " He smiled at her as he smiled at death, cheerfully. .
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