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She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. She wondered what the problem was, why the buildup? She wanted to go to his apartment that evening but stayed herself. 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. "Jump!" cried Ben, in a voice of thunder. It depresses one, you know. You’re of age— you’re of age. ‘They cannot help it. Even though I knew you’d no one else to care.
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