. ‘Eh bien, Eugénie. Not only that, but he carried himself erect— the slight slouch which had bent his shoulders had altogether disappeared. But here she met with a check. 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. That is the dreadful truth. . ‘Don’t put me at the necessity of marrying the abominable little wretch. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. Feigning an air of casualness, Lucy asked the obvious.
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