In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. There was something holding women down, holding women back, and if it wasn’t exactly man-made law, man-made law was an aspect of it. You might be able to use the picture some day. She was, she guessed, close to the library. 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. He donned his winter coat. “I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person.
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