“A little touchy this evening, aren’t we, Missy?” Michelle chided her friend. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. 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. Things got hot and heavy in the car the next night, and he peeled off her skirt and top to reveal her underwear. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. “This ain’t no place for you.
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