Part 3 For a time they walked in silence through the back streets that lead southward from the College. The latter formed by far the most knavish-looking and unprepossessing portion of the assemblage. It was something you were supposed to return, so she raced through all the television shows that she had watched over the years. 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 mouth was an effective tourniquet.
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