Yes, yes; that was all very well in ordinary cases; but yonder was a soul in travail, if ever she had seen one. But the father, to go his way forever alone! The iron in the man!—the iron in this child of his! Wanting a little love, a caress now and then. In fact, I order you to do so. 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. “Now, Veronica,” he pleaded, “Veronica, this is most unreasonable. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork.
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