CHAPTER II. “I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt. 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. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. This will be safer than cutting his throat on shore. “Eight, Cavendish Square.
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