“I did,” Anna answered. "I've counted ten coffins so far. “You look nice today, Lucy. Gradually McClintock shifted the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and music rolls. He found his youngest daughter intrusive in his thoughts all through the morning, and still more so in the afternoon. He's coming. And always they were well satisfied. 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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