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. “You are Mademoiselle Pellissier?” he asked, without rising to his feet. They were familiar but more massive. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. . They turned the corner that joined Michelle's street to her own. I have been sitting with him ever since. She disengaged her hands and stood up. What reassured her, however, more than anything else, was the shape of the mouth: it was warmly turned.
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