His new wife’s face was sweet and angelic with hair the color of flax, her belly already visibly large beneath a roe skin pelt. She was interested by the swearing of the witnesses. 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. After all, this could never be the black sheep. \" Lucy fought to resist the compulsion to 45 fold her arms over her chest.
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