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Without her, it was lonely. ‘Tell me, my boy. “Good luck! Good luck!” She waved from the window until the bend hid him. “We always have things out with OUR father, poor dear!” said Hetty. She woke up choking and belching water. “Surely!” he remarked, with an expression of worried appeal. 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. Her knees were trembling, her whole frame was shaken with sobs. You might tell the truth to some men, but never to him.
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