John knew everybody, it seemed. She did not bother with the backpack despite its due tomorrow status. She laughed till the tears stood in her eyes. God would have taken mercy on her baby, seeing that she had already had too much pain and that he had taken her beloved mother. 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.
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