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. Chairs were overturned. Walking into the bedroom, she quickly shed the miniskirt and sweater, folding them without ceremony. " "My mind's made up," rejoined Jack, coldly,—"we part to-night. He rose slowly and extended it.
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