Lucy went hunting on a Thursday night. Wood turned over to obtain a more comfortable position. They had heard nothing, seen nothing. It was a great weight from her shoulders to confide in another human being, and she suspected he did truly believe her. The policeman raised his voice, slightly agitated. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. 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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