It was such an unexpected stroke of fortune. 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. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. It cost her seventy-seven dollars. Sheppard from his elevated position. And yet, the doctor recalled an expression of the girl's: that it was not a dissipated face, only troubled. “You too sing?” he asked. " He drew down the lamp and blew it out, and followed her into the night, more lovely than he had ever imagined night to be. It will hold aloof, a little undecided whether to pelt or not—” “That depends whether we carry ourselves as though we expected pelting,” said Ann Veronica. “Tell him to drive—anywhere,” she exclaimed.
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