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Then you won't tell me where he's going?" "I will tell you six months from now. The atmosphere seemed heavy with the odour of drugs. I don't think he'll come to himself too soon. 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. “I have had adventures—oh, more than one, I can assure you. But perhaps if people didn’t like clear, bright, healthy eyes—which is biologically understandable—they couldn’t like precious stones.
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