You have taken my dagger. 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. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. "You two … both of you! But for you I couldn't have done it. Gerald sympathised with his friend’s irritation. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. "That depends upon what you call educated. It was so arranged that Ruth went on duty after breakfast and remained until noon. She knew that I cared for her, she had admitted that she cared for me. .
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