You should go home today and get some rest. She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent shrug. 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 looked to me as if he was playing games with Madame Valade,’ Lucilla said frankly. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth.
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