Of late, he has become the instrument of Walpole, and does all the dirty work for the Secret Committee. Rhea spun round and sank her teeth into Lucy’s arm. 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. “Muck-headed moral ass! I ought to have done anything. For that matter, my future be damned. I am fairly well hardened in iniquity—your iniquity, Annabel—but I decline to have a husband thrust upon me. Now lend me your own hand. .
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