Perhaps my wife has already prepared you for what I wish to say. ' He muttered it continually. A wedding procession turned the corner. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. Her aunt went out of the room with dignity and a rustle, and up-stairs to the fastness of her own room. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. You’re mine. Sebastian, as doctor, was constantly around the sick and the dying. 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. Meanwhile, she was spirited away from John and bombarded by half-familiar people who attempted to chat with her above the roar of the crowd.
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