The chamber rang with her shrieks. 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. “Ssh!” said her mother, and then added, “A little natural feeling, dear. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. You could return to civilization and have a good time all the rest of your days.
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