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 left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters. "See the devil!—not I," cried Wood impatiently. It's all very well to read him a lesson, and teach him obedience; but you've gone far enough for that. Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he shaped his course towards the west end of the town. She would not sleep for fear of losing a moment of that sense of his proximity. She didn’t know anything more about your mom.
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