A low cry broke from her lips, a stormy sob, another and another, like quick short waves breaking over the bar when the tide is low and the wind is rising suddenly.
The Wanderer was in sore straits, for the minutes were passing quickly and he remembered the last look on Kafka's face, and how he had left the Moravian standing before the weapons on the wall.

And nothing had been done yet, not so much as an order given not to admit him if he came to the house.

At any moment he might be upon them.

And the storm showed no signs of being spent.

Her wild, convulsive sobbing was painful to hear.
If he tried to move, she dragged herself frantically at his feet so that he feared lest he should tread upon her hands.