‘Poor Hilary. Have I your final answer?"
"You have, Sir Rowland," she answered, in a feeble tone, but firmly. 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. Wood sank, submissively, into a chair,
while his daughter hastened to execute her arbitrary parent's commission. She thrust at him, following, almost spitting him as he
crashed against the altar, rocking the huge candlesticks and the vessels that stood
on it. Her cheeks seemed to burn, her veins ran riot, and her heart was beating
so fast that she was sure he must feel it through his scarlet coat.
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This video was uploaded to m.damaulifm.org on 02-07-2024 09:47:30