” “Very well,” the man answered. Everett’s gaze dropped to the papers in his hand. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. ” The corners of her mouth rose in a weak smile and she gave him a wink. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. 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. I understand.
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