It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. “It is very doubtful,” he said. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. Between Canton and Hartford two giants had risen, invisible but menacing— Fear and Doubt. The expression was wholly different. 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. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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