"I should think so," responded the lethargic turnkey, with a yawn. Suddenly, she heard the crunch of new feet on the gravel. She was gone. 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. He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes. “What do you mean?” Lucy asked. . "Nothing more than to obtain a favourable answer to my suit," replied Kneebone. “Goodnight. “I wonder if I’ve been properly brought up.
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