She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. 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. ‘Playing games to tease me, that’s all he can think of doing. Once a thriving town before the Pestilence, most of the buildings and the piers had been destroyed or burned. In the circles into which he had been born, the passing on of land was of vital importance. She recognized the cloth at once, waylaid him, and with that directness of speech particularly hers she explained what she wanted.
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