She was noisy and hilarious and enthusiastic, and her hair was always abominably done. The aunt rushed over to her nephew, knelt and wrapped him in her arms. He's got the gift of the gab. 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. Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. She could not go to him when it was apparent that he needed her beyond all other instances! What had caused this agony did not matter—then. ‘Hang it all, Mrs Sindlesham is right! You are two of a kind.
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