Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. That’s the wonder of it. ‘The old man who lives here, idiot. Out of the beaten track! He must not appear too eager. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill. 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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