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. “It’s all right,” he said, reassuringly to the inquirer
without. You need not be afraid. This is part of a dream—
some evil fancy. Happy
Thanksgiving. But it was only
when that damned scoundrel nearly spitted you in the chapel—’ He broke off
and, to her intense satisfaction she saw he was not as much in command of
himself as he would have her believe. "I have saved the executioner a labour, by cutting his throat," replied Blueskin. She gave her a wink when John had turned
to ask Mark if Lucy could ride home with them.
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