The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. 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. The overnight nervous strain began to tell; she became inattentive to the work before her, and it did not get on. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. A man’s children nowadays are not his own. Melusine flew after him, the sword held out before her and pointing directly at his retreating back. He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence.
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