This woman knows me—’ throwing the remark at Lucilla ‘—and that I am the daughter of Mary Remenham. Turning, she flew for the nearest door. But I'm not worrying about that. They arrived at the party shortly after 10:00pm. 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.
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