This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. It's infernally provoking. I am so amazed to see you here. 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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