” He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. Do not be a fool, Jacques. ” Annabel sank suddenly into a chair. But let the horses be in readiness. Her cheeks were aflame. 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. She felt that Ann Veronica had duped her in that dream, and now that she had come up to London she might as well speak her mind. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. She was glad when he went on: “I want to be your city of refuge from every sort of bother. ‘Go then.
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