Too much, perhaps. How do you like the story?” “Go on,” said Ann Veronica, a little hoarsely, “tell me all of it. But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. 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 have made over seven hundred pounds in the last week,” he said. I think he got sick of us and he disappeared not one week later. Spurling; Austin had never quitted his post.
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