Opening her large black eyes, she fixed them upon him for a moment with a mixture of terror and loathing, and then averted her gaze. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. I am apparently a beast, a pig and an imbecile, too, if memory serves me. I could not hear his heart beat. Spurling attended him as his nurse, and, under her care, he speedily revived. 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’s my choice, Lucy. He looked at her, hurt.
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