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. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. “I ate their mother first. Shakily, she rose with the sword and drove it through Rhea’s heart. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. "I've done with you. "It is open," replied the lady, rushing towards it, and springing through the outlet. Be this as it may, though a Catholic, he died a friend to the Protestant succession. Imagine her, putting herself to all this delay and inconvenience for a young wastrel she did not know and who, the moment he got on his feet, would doubtless pass out of her life without so much as Thank you! And it was ten to one that she would not comprehend the ingratitude. Wood fared still worse. He had not proceeded far when he encountered Sir Rowland, who, having missed his attendant, had returned to look after him.
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