Jeremy sat, his arms tightly round Hamlet's neck, on the dirty floor, a strange mixture of misery, weariness, fright, and anger.

There was already in him a strain of impatience, so that he could not bear simply to sit down and bewail something as, for instance, both his sisters were doing at this moment.
He must act.

They could not bo happy without their mother; he himself wanted her so badly that even now, there in the flaming conservatory, if he had allowed himself to do such a thing, he would have sat and cried and cried and cried.

But he was not going to cry.

Mary and Helen could cry--they were girls; he was going to do something.
As he sat there, getting hotter and hotter, there grew, larger and larger before his eyes, the figure of Terrible God.