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. His hair flew out from the sides of his head like black bats from a belfry, it was unruly and long. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom. ’ ‘Prudence,’ repeated Gerald unguardedly. " "State the facts, then. ” “Much better,” she agreed.
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