But it would serve. “I’m not going to kill you, John. 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. All the precious paintings and statues of the divine family were here, as was the enormous wooden crucifix set above the altar. The Victoria was Ah Cum's bread and butter. A creeping numbness invaded her. In the grate were some charred fragments of a marriage certificate.
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