Charvill’s fury was burning out. Her eyes were lit with smouldering passion. "And there you're right, you may dipind, marm," observed Terence. 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. And here are these places, full of contagion! “Of course, this is the real texture of life, this is what we refined secure people forget. Annabel ignored both the chair and the invitation. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot.
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