Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. 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. ” He said. That’s one thing clear. What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means abated, glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and made him a very civil salutation.
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