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. In truth, she had been quite glad to lose the argument about remaining while the bullet was dug out of Jack’s side. No one seeing you together could doubt that she is your granddaughter. She felt that she was not alone. The aunt laughed. It wouldn't do to say that she was from the hospital.
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