“It would have been rash and unwise,” she said at the end of a meditation. “He has a stubbly yellow moustache, weak eyes, and great horrid hands. 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. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight. She would be extraordinarily interesting as a metaphysical study. She brought her hands up to her head and ripped out two long chunks of her hair, pulling out shreds of scalp.
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