When he faced Spurlock, the granite was cracked and rived; never had Spurlock seen such dumb agony in human eyes. Don't feel fussed upon my account. “My darling!” he said, clasping her resolutely in his arms, “my dearest!” “Mr. ” Her passion conquered for a moment her fear. I can get into my clothes. 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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