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. She pointed. She opened the door with a neon colored key. ‘Me, I do not need the help of anyone. Rhea writhed and scuttled about like a crab. “You must not. Here she would find candy awaiting her, bits of ribbon, books. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. Swiftly he looked back to Melusine and found she had whisked to the window, dragging a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve and hastily blowing her nose. “You can keep him at arm’s length.
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