“No,” said Ann Veronica, “but I want to know. While this was passing, Jonathan had ridden back to Marvel to tell him that all was ready, and to give him his last instructions. Love stories! It was of negligible importance that these books were bound in paper; Romance lay unalterably within. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. 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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