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. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death. Into one of these the waterman jumped, and, having assisted Mr. Ann Veronica hesitated with a question that had leaped up in her mind, and that she felt was cruel. ‘I wish you joy of the wench.
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