’ The familiar hollow opened up inside Melusine’s chest, and she could not prevent the husky note that entered her voice. 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. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. Still, he was puzzled because McClintock had not spoken. As we turned the corner of the street, I noticed that the electric light was burning in this room. . ‘How do you do? I am so happy to meet you. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. He rose deliberately to his feet and confronted them. I do swear.
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