It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. But it is that I have a very bad temper, you understand. 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. He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to. He was beautiful and perfect, his blue eyes smiling at her.
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