. " "Wood's daughter, I suppose?" observed the other. “Please stop by. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. 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. CHAPTER XXII Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. .
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