"There is nobody else. As I hope for mercy, I speak the truth!— let him deny it if he can. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. 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. Wild allowed you to have your fine clothes again, or you might have been taken in a still more disgraceful garb. They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely.
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