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. They will
be safe. “My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. Was she a fool to wish a person of a disposition altogether
not pleasing to marry her? Was it not true that he made a game with her very
often? Had he not been extremely interfering from the beginning? And had he
not kissed her, just when—
Her thoughts skidded to a stop. Here, put it on your finger. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. "
"Mighty fine!" ejaculated Mrs. I’ve never found them hostile. No, this was
imbecile. “I was in Paris four years ago,” Mr. She admired and rather pitied him, and she was
unfeignedly grateful to him. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself,
in a voice that was forced and insincere. Only a book detective could dope this out.
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