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. They even talked about friendship. Wood's, the carpenter in Wych Street. ‘I thought as how it couldn’t do no harm, and as it turns out, it done me a bit of good. She thought gleefully of the dress she would get to wear for the Ball (Prom?) and could not wait to tell her foster family about how excited she was. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. ‘Come, come, ma’am,’ he said smiling.
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