At sunset the swarming abruptly ceased; even the sampans appeared to draw closer together, with the quiet of water-fowl. 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. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. ” She hesitated.
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