’ He held his hands out of the way, surrendering his chest for her assault. 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. For thirty years I have lived alone; but once upon a time I lived among men. She wanted to be alone. “It’s funny, the way a good house feels. Pull over there. ” He cried traitorously.
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