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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. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. It was about twelve feet high, nine wide, and fourteen long; and was approached by double doors each six inches thick. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood.
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