I never had even a real doll," she added, as she snuggled the flea-bitten head to her heart. You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master. I think that I am a little disappointed in you. She felt flattered. Years ago, when you were a girl and in the bloom of your beauty, I loved you. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. 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.
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