Wood," urged Jack. For a moment she remained silent. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. “It is so difficult,” she murmured, “so impossible to explain. He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed. 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. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin.
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