News was sent back home, and in October, Marina traveled to Florence to live with her daughter again. It is in vain to struggle against the arm of fate. 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. The clock struck half-past ten. She began to act. Anna watched her from the windows, watched the carriage jolt away along the cobbled street and disappear. No matter. I will tell you this much, because you have been kind. Presently she was going through a swaying, noisy crowd, whose faces grinned and stared pitilessly in the light of the electric standards. Their chit-chat stopped when they reached the bench. All the linen was new and stamped with the mark of Whiteaway, Laidlaw & Co. .
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