Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away. 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. Until the age of five she adored him. "Before you go, bring me the bottle of pineapple rum I opened yesterday. And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort.
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