’ ‘He doesn’t sound like a desirable parti. I'll dispose of the brat. . She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. 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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