“Rummy lot we are!” said Roddy. It would make the young wife unhappy. 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. The noose was at its throat when I called for help. You never can tell. The touch of her hands was pleasurable. A common rage flushed their faces. Never mind. Make haste!" Ruth hurried off to her own room.
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