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. “This is MY thing,” said Ann Veronica, softly, with thoughtful eyes upon him. But, hang it, I know it's good!" "Of course it is!" In the afternoon he began work on another tale. “She told you that?” “Yes. "You'll get nothing out of me, I can promise you, unless you show a little more civility. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. “I’ve fallen in love. She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him.
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