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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 might be upset. She is, in her way, a dear. "I don't see how I can improve it. Stanley regarded him through his glasses with something approaching animosity. . . “You see, Vee,” said Mrs. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. “Why don’t you?” “Well, it might mean rather a row. "Gone," replied the wounded man. “Do tell me all about it.
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