Wood did think of it, and groaned aloud. The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey. Lucy could see her striding down a Parisian catwalk quite easily. They should never come into contact with politics or economics—or any of those things. She would have been amazed if John was even aware of any one of the incidents. There was absolute quiet. 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. “Much as I hate rows, I’ve either got to make a stand or give in altogether.
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