It’s one of our conventional superstitions. “I mean to,” she replied. 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 was alive at four o’clock this afternoon,” she answered, “but the doctors give little hope of his recovery. ” Lucy grew hot. Ennison slightly——” There was a dead silence in the little room. ‘I am not a fool.
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