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In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes. He talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. 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. ‘As Madame Valade, you will be an émigré, not a nun. I mentioned sixty, I believe, when I was in Paris, but there are expenses, and just now business is bad. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. One cannot expect that soldiers can be sympathique to one they believe may be a French spy. ” “Annabel knew where I lived,” Anna continued slowly. But "fine" is the word.

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