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. "He can't get out. "It's runnin' a great risk. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. Forgive me if a certain warmth creeps into my words! The Park is green and gray to-day, but I am glowing pink and gold. “The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he remarked. The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years.
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