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. And empty. “So you come from Anna, do you?” she remarked. There was nothing on the Tablets of Moses that forebade Spurlock marrying Ruth; there were no previous contracts. "There! off with you!" whispered Mrs. "Who's that queer cove in the full-bottomed wig?" "Attend to me, sirrah," rejoined Wild, sternly.
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