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. He would advise you how to get rid of the fellow. They had much to talk about, or rather Miss Prudence had. One went in for painting, kept straight and married old Ferringhall a week or so ago—the Lord help her. The strong potation he had taken, combined with fatigue and anxiety he had previously undergone, made him oversleep himself, and when he awoke it was just beginning to grow light. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. ” “Why not?” She turned on him.
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