“I saw you go into that place, and I have been waiting for you ever since. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. A brief description will suffice for them. 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. For this three weeks had been the hardest of her life. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed.
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