The only one who remained in any way at ease was Margaret, who had lapsed into one of her moods of abstraction, but who seemed to wake up to a note of gladness.

Her father, who was watching her intently, smiled; her mood was to him a direct confirmation of his theory.
For myself I was almost overcome.

The definite fixing of the hour seemed like the voice of Doom.

When I think of it now, I can realise how a condemned man feels at his sentence, or at the sounding of the last hour he is to hear.
There could be no going back now! We were in the hands of God! The hands of God...! And yet...! What other forces were arrayed?
...
What would become of us all, poor atoms of earthly dust whirled in the wind which cometh whence and goeth whither no man may know.

It was not for myself...