The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. Certainly not a gentlewoman. Day after day she pounded him with curses, saying that her mother looked down on him from Heaven and sent a curse, to which he laughed. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. 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. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms.
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