" "Be still!" returned Jonathan, in the same under tone, and with great selfpossession: "I can yet save you. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. ’ Charvill eyed the girl with resentment. She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. 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.
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