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. In this way (he informed Spurlock) he kept posted on what was going on in the strictly commercial world. At a little after five, on that day, four horses dashed round the corner of the Old Bailey, and drew up before the door of the Lodge. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. Mr. “It is nothing of any importance. He threw her on the bed. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain.
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