But, you see, I’m smirched. He was standing up with the telegram crumpled in his hand. ” He stood before her, his hat in his hand, his head bent, his voice lowered to a convenient pitch. You know that I am practically destitute, without means or any certain knowledge of where my next meal is coming from. 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.
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