‘Do not beg my pardon. ” The shock of their intellectual attitude was over, usage robbed it of the first quaint effect of deliberate unreason. 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. It reminded Ann Veronica of having a tooth stopped. The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. “You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately. . It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour.
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