And then she could see nothing at all for his lips founds hers. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. 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. He rolled onto his belly, freeing himself from her hands, pushing her away. “Well anyhow—I don’t see the force of your objection, you know. “Sure, but it’s not like you’re married, you know. Awkwardly, he closed his eyes and fumbled for a kiss.
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