Drummond smoked his cigarette meditatively. "Jack Sheppard's fingers are lime-twigs. The temperature soared to one hundred degrees, sickeningly hot. I wonder,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “whether you ever realize how young you are. “I’m fine,” she said softly. 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. Thought she was a nun at first. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success. When Sheila was in a good mood, one almost enjoyed her. It dawned upon him that he had been abominably used by Ann Veronica.
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