“No, he wouldn’t come here of all places—just now. His own heart was too full of melancholy foreboding. I'll have no such toast drunk at my table!" "It's the king's birthday," urged the woollen draper. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. 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. With a strong tendency to satire, but without a particle of malice or ill-nature in its display. Thank goodness you’ll understand. ” She assented, smiling. ‘I wish you joy of the wench. Have we not received Lady Bicknacre just this morning? Not to mention the Comtesse de St Erme. Bounding the corner of a garden wall, he came upon his former place of imprisonment.
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