Anna jumped into a waiting hansom. 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. The watermen, who manned the larger wherry, immediately shipped their oars, grappled with the drifting skiff, and held it fast. I guess we could go for a ride. Ann Veronica was not aware of this literary side of her teacher; she had a little tinge of annoyance at Miss Garvice’s advantage. "It is time!" "For what?" grumbled the latter, rubbing his eyes. I would that you were my own. The man pulled up his horse grumbling, and turned round. "Oh! nothin' partickler—mere curossity," replied Terence. . .
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