I cannot have my wife distressed or worried. He regarded that perennial miracle of pinning with wrathful eyes. "Well, you never can tell," he continued, lamely. Such an obvious ruse, but the boys and girls would defend their pride to the bitter end, the facade of study groups during rutting season. 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. It was perfectly logical.
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