’ ‘Just what I thought, miss. 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. Piercing through every crevice in the clothes, it, in some cases, tore them from the wearer's limbs, or from his grasp. ‘I know her, ma’am, but I know next to nothing of her story. When she released him he ran down the beach for a stick which he fetched and laid at her feet. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. “My friend,” she said, “I have been your pupil for two years. He never appears to so little advantage as when speaking of him. You cannot—shall not retreat. Spurlock felt very well pleased with himself. ‘It weren’t my wish, miss, I can tell you that.
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