It is not at all comme il faut. 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. Laugh on the wrong side of your mouth, now. And all to find that picture of Mary Remenham. “Who the hell are you, Lucy?” “Promise me you will never tell anyone. ‘To the contrary, I will have you to know something. She had eaten little or no tea, and her mid-day meal had been worse than nothing.
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