” “Oh, gimme a break, Lucy. I shouldn't care to express an opinion. 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 sun shined weakly through brief pinpricks 90 in the thick cloud cover, the weather was brewing a storm. I wouldn't trust a Malay, not if he were reared in the Vatican.
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