He could not talk nor think.

It was a comfort, however, to sit holding her hand.

She was dissatisfied and miserable.

He was not with her; she was nothing.
And in the evening they sat among the sandhills, looking at the black, heavy sea.
"She will never give in," he said quietly.
Clara's heart sank.
"No," she replied.
"There are different ways of dying.

My father's people are frightened, and have to be hauled out of life into death like cattle into a slaughter-house, pulled by the neck; but my mother's people are pushed from behind, inch by inch.