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. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. "What's to be done next?" cried Blueskin, returning to Rachel, who was standing with Edgeworth Bess near the door. " "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. Wild!" demanded Trenchard, as if he had formed a sudden resolution. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed.
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