"Under these circumstances, Rowland did what any other sensible person would do. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. Melusine tapped on it. She's the boss. 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. The beach: to get there as quickly as he could, to reach the white man's nadir of abasement and gather the promise of that soothing indifference which comes with the final disintegration of the fibres of conscience. Without Sheila, the denizens of the neighborhood might forget they had the ability to communicate with each other.
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