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. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. “I don’t care,” said Ann Veronica to the darkness; “I’ll fight it. “You are their friend, then?” “I am,” Courtlaw answered. I didn’t go out of my way or anything. I bound him up good and tight, stuffed his mouth with a length of rope, taped it shut.
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