She found pieces of it on the blacktop near the green dumpster, amazingly small pieces considering the fabric’s original heft. 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. When I absorb a fact, my brain weighs the fact carefully and stores it away. . Here was the same Ruth who had left him a few minutes since: the same outwardly; and yet…! On the ninth day Spurlock was up and about; that is, he was strong enough to walk alone, from the companion to his chair, to lean upon the rail when the chair grew irksome, to join Ruth and his employer at lunch and dinner: strong enough to argue about books, music, paintings. "Do not steel your heart against him, dear Thames," interposed Winifred. Laughed at me, then. She admired and rather pitied him, and she was unfeignedly grateful to him. It has been purchased by blood!" "What! have you cut old Wood's throat?" asked Wild, with great unconcern, as he took up the bag.
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