“John, don’t!” she cried. He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations. He sent me home. 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. Smith had never seen anything like it. "I told you that before," rejoined Wood, testily. “This ain’t no place for you. “I have a letter for you, and no end of messages. ‘What is the matter?’ ‘Is there nothing you do not know?’ she asked faintly. We have seen great and sober-minded men come to this unholy city, and become degenerates. ‘But the fact remains that you should not have enjoyed it, you were quite right to threaten to kill me, and I— God help me!—should not have kissed you at all.
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