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. ‘And you, my girl, if you’d been born at all, would have been just what you think you are. Then we find out. Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you’ve jammed it now. “Oh! I wish,” she said, “that people thought alike about these things. ” Lucy commented as the mud was smoothed around the grave site. "Poor Mrs.
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