And I get myself dirty. Something like a snarl crossed his face, and ignoring the pistol, he moved forward, seizing her shoulders. 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. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed.
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