"Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. 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
was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet
something eluded her. It
ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and
the thick quilting of her coat. I worshipped her and subdued myself. Martha was quite right. She saw its depraved eyes, but worse were
the glittering teeth as it smiled. Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and
passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. "You poor child!" Prudence took Ruth's hands in her own. Bottles and glasses usurped the place of
dishes and plates. She loved the market, the horses
trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road
with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or
a ducat. Cathy opened her beauty shop, you know.
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