See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once. They're gone into the next room. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. 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. Besides, you cannot visit people armed with a pistol in London, you know. The Becks as a 187 family didn’t talk or ruminate over Mike’s or Lucy’s past much.
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