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. This is not the conduct of a jeune demoiselle. We’ll make short work of them. I've opened the case of books. All the initial confidence in herself was gone; her courage was merely a shell to hide the lack. “We should get out of here. The blood will rest on your head. He drew her to him and tipped her chin towards him. Women, she had been taught, who exposed the flesh of their bodies under the eyes of man were in a special catagory of the damned. .
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