Fearful that she had given herself away, she sank back down onto her stool. One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London. 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. Until the last few months. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. There was nothing on the Tablets of Moses that forebade Spurlock marrying Ruth; there were no previous contracts. I wish very much that you had written before leaving Paris.
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