So he resolved to try another tack. 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 just want him, and no one else will do. But the wench who tricked me shall bitterly repent it. . Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street. Red velvet curtains rustled under dim lights as the door shut with a heavy snap. “You’re a biologist, aren’t you?” He began to talk of his own impressions of biology as a commonplace magazine reader who had to get what he could from the monthly reviews, and was glad to meet with any information from nearer the fountainhead. She had never felt so cold, she felt even colder than she had in the water. Wood.
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