There was a confused impression of livery carriages and whips with white favors, people fussily wanting other people to get in before them, and then the church. Father— dead. 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'd rather have given a thousand pounds than this had happened. Do you understand?” “I do not,” he answered. But I know a little place where we’ll get a little quiet talk. She glanced at him and made a dismissive gesture. “It’s a way of avoiding explanations.
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