“It is concerning—our future relations,” Sir John pronounced ponderously. It’s so different from what one has been led to expect. 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. Can you imagine how dreadful it must be for them? Most of them arrive here almost penniless. I had gone further than I meant to—with some Englishmen.
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