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. Like the flaws of an old marble. “If I had three hands,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would give one to each of you. “You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly. Such of his features as were visible were of coarse mould. And talking of every conceivable thing. ’ Reminiscence made him smile. ’ Colour suffused the man’s face. But you couldn't. But one day he came to me.
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