“Not like it’s your fault if you wake up one day and decide you hanker for a nice piece of ass, a ten-minute tumble. ‘I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about. "To go a little further. And, turning at the touch, he perceived Sheppard's glance fixed meaningly upon him. 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 breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt.
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