She spent many days in the castle alone as he busied himself with his alchemy, or traveled to Florence to visit his remaining political connections. 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. Covered with houses, from one end to the other, this reverend and picturesque structure presented the appearance of a street across the Thames.
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