” For a time there seemed no comfort for her even in Capes. And then they talked of Anarchism and Socialism, and whether the former was the exact opposite of the latter or only a higher form. 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 could not bear the shame of it. I want to get away—to go to London.
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