" "I'm sure I'm very sorry. His quiet, kindly smile implied his serene disbelief in any confessible thing. When she awoke she felt as if she were adrift on a soft cloud through a golden sky. 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. If my Mom found out, she’d kill me. I’m the sort of dog, if you turn it out of the room it lies down on the mat at the door. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. Of course this thing was absolutely impossible. For a nun at night it is less dangerous than for the jeune demoiselle.
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