She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. She had made a bed for herself out of wood and furs. You cannot refuse me this. 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. “Annabel! God in Heaven, it is Annabel!” She did not speak. Somebody to whom she would be necessary, who for days would have to depend upon her for the needs of life. ’ ‘Do you take me for a fool, Hilary?’ demanded his betrothed.
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