The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. “Before I came to England I was told that there were two things which an Englishman who was comme-ilfaut never did. He began to talk again in quick undertones that she could not clearly hear. . 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. "Here we part,—perhaps for ever. Too late, alas, to stop the disastrous marriage. ‘To take a baby all the way to France without a wet-nurse. Would it be Thérèse?’ She shook her head. " "Do you suppose he knew?" "He? Oh, you mean Mr. .
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