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We must always move on. Almost light-heartedly. The afternoon had passed now into twilight. At the end of two long lines of foot-guards stood the cart with a powerful black horse harnessed to it. 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. " "I might have been able to do that if you hadn't told me … she cared.
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