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. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. John was acutely focused upon her now, just as she had wanted him to be. \"So John, are you two lovebirds going to the Junior Prom or what?\" He paused, smirking. “Fine. Upon which Mrs.
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