The material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone. 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 dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. Its very calmness was frightful. . I know now what it is to be an abandoned female. “La belle ‘Alcide,’ wasn’t it? Annabel Pellissier was her real name. Promise me that you’ll contact the police if she ever calls you on the phone, or worse, shows up at your school.
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