She foraged about in her mind for some satisfying equivalent which would express in English this gurgling drone the Chinese called a language. Lucy looked at her with a small measure of pity. “My husband and all his friends are fools, and the life they lead is impossible for me. 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. I knew it was in vain to cry 'murder!' in the Mint, so I had recourse to stratagem.
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