” That conversation ended and he turned to her again. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. 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. " "Oh! do not say so," replied his wretched parent. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult.
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