’ ‘Your husband?’ Gerald tutted. She could not help herself. ‘Here you, Pottiswick. Whenever they stepped from the chairs, he stepped down. In her usual style, she interviewed him for his life and was pleased that he liked nothing more than to talk about himself. 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. “Twenty-two. I feel almost inclined to regret the fact.
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