Why hadn't he gone on with the girl's story? What instinct had stuffed it back into his throat? Why the inexplicable impulse to hurry this rather pathetic derelict on his way? CHAPTER XV Previous to his illness, Spurlock's mind had been tortured by an appalling worry, so that now, in the process of convalescence, it might be compared to a pool which had been violently stirred: there were indications of subsidence, but there were still strange forms swirling on the surface—whims and fancies which in normal times would never have risen above sub-consciousness. “You’ve grown out of them. ” He said. I was at work at it yesterday and the day before. Into one of these he waded and rolled and rolled, despite her commands. “And if she can’t have the right one? “We’ve developed such a quality of preference!” She rubbed her knuckles into her forehead.
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