Upon the pavement near the court lay the
porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. She had not gone by the name Lucy during
those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia
Iovelli”. Thus, all her interest in life began to centre upon the patient, who was apparently
quite as anchorless as she was. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and
cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate,
ordered Vero Capri. . 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. She was
marvellously pretty, but he was not quite sure—yet—that it was advisable for
him to sit with her in so public a place. “I’ve never been prone to
them. I’m not half smart enough for the West End.
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