I do not think that I have the Bohemian spirit at all. Stay! I'll go myself. A woman touched him lightly on the arm, and smiled into his face. Drummond, who had been about to speak, refrained. 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’ve been thinking—all the afternoon. Furiously, she dashed his hands away. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. ‘Don’t dare address me by such a title.
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