Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. It really isn’t so easy to go as it seems. 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. Kneebone made no effort to check the unreasonable merriment of his companions, but rather seemed to encourage it.
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