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. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. Half an hour passed, but Jack did not make his appearance. The hope that had been suddenly kindled in the youth's bosom was as suddenly extinguished. ‘Hadn’t meant you to know,’ said the nun gruffly.
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