The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. ‘And so you sneak back,’ she threw at him, ‘like the jackal that you are. His tongue was hot. If all wives were of my mind and my spirit, husbands would soon be taught their own insignificance. He then made off. Lord, but it was a nun! Just as he had suspected. The dinner was stranger than she had ever anticipated. 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.
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