A woman such as I am might help take care of Mr. “Why?” He inquired. The cook tried to ply her with spiced meat and fish soup. 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. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. Most of all she enjoyed the gentle gratitude of her foster family members, even the teasing 7 of Mike, her foster brother, who liked to play food critic to give her a hard time.
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