He could not have explained the change in himself--the swift reaction of thought and emotion that filled him with a mastering sympathy for Bram Johnson.
He waited, and less and less grew his fear of the wolves.

Even more clearly he saw Bram as the time passed; the hunted look in the man's eyes, even as he hunted--the loneliness of him as he had stood listening for a sound from the only friends he had--the padded beasts ahead.

In spite of Bram's shrieking cry to his pack, and the strangeness of the laugh that had floated back out of the white night after the shots, Philip was convinced that he was not mad.

He had heard of men whom loneliness had killed.

He had known one--Pelletier, up at Point Fullerton, on the Arctic.