Melusine ripped at the buttons of the garment, dragging it open and away, and gasped at the massive red stain on his shirt. 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. "I'm surprised you've not asked that question before, Sir Rowland. He left that arid rule clear of the least mist of refinement or delicacy. "What have you seen?" inquired Lady Trafford. ’ Gerald sighed. I'll wait here.
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