The jolly part of it was that for the first time in her life so far as London was concerned, she was not going anywhere in particular; for the first time in her life it seemed to her she was taking London in. 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. Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. People were not slaves to their gods as they are now, oppressed and unhappy, chained to their mortality and suffering so that they may one day enter an imaginary Heaven. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. Clotilde pried Fritz from Lucy’s left leg where he was clinging. Only a son’s another story. What do you say to Brighton——” Anna looked at him quietly—and he never finished his sentence.
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