" CHAPTER V. ’ Melusine stifled a giggle. "You see?" Ruth said. She was to have fifteen pounds, and no more. . . 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. Sometimes the moon was totally eclipsed; at others, it shed a wan and ghastly glimmer over the masses rolling in the firmament. No instrument I've ever used has done me such good service. Even there a woman never gets a fair chance. They trudged and talked, and Manning struggled, as he said, to “get the hang of it all.
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