Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. Epithalamy might do. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. “Did he tell you, Annabel?” “Yes. ” She was on the very verge of a vegetarian meal before she recovered her head again. “I know the place you mean—very good cooking for such an out-of-the-way show. 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.
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