“Yes. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. Empty, silly, coarse brutes. Set the boy free. 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. Her father intercepted her, and for a moment she and he struggled with their hands upon the latch. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. But one was clearly the goddess among them, her face hidden, her body seeming to call out to me to possess it at once. The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. She sought hastily in her mind for a plausible answer to an obvious question that didn’t come. “I don’t know, John, but I think there is something going on with Michelle. Now, more than ever, it was time to start running. O God! O God!" And he appeared convulsed with agony.
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