We have seen great and sober-minded men come to this unholy city, and become degenerates. 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. ‘Small wonder in a way that he found hisself consolation elsewhere. ‘Typical. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there.
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