“What else was I to do?” For some seconds she stood watching him and both were thinking very quickly. It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away. Mr. 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. The girl was flushed with excitement, bright-eyed, and braced for a struggle; her aunt had never seen her looking so fine or so pretty. More than half the city perished.
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