‘Point it at me. “I’ve tried to make words tell it. 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. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. It was a shame that they had made such a fuss, she thought as he arrived. You are different from all the world for me.
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