‘Monsieur, my wife intended not to anger you,’ he said in a tone of apology. Perhaps once it had desired some other human being intolerably. 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. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. With the aid of a penknife he ripped the shoulder seams and drew out the ten one-thousand dollar bills.
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