CHAPTER VII. That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. It opened and a nun’s head popped out. I must go to work again. "That's an incorrigible rascal," he added, as Sheppard closed the door; "it's only to-day that I discovered—" "What?" asked Jackson, pricking up his ears. 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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