‘Oh, I don’t wish to marry you. I can wield a quarterstaff as well as a prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself at the broadsword. 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 was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert. Always I have said I will take care of myself, and I have done so. If you recall, Gianfrancesco’s second cousin had been ransomed by a family they had feuded with for hundreds of years.
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