The dead hours of the night came, that valley of the shadow of death where faith seems to grow weary and sleep, and all the things of the shadow wake up and come out and say, "Here we are, and there is nothing but us and our kind in the universe!" They woke up and came out upon Mary now, but she fought them off.

Either there is mighty, triumphant life at the root and apex of all things, or life is not--and whence, then, the power of dreaming horrors?
It is life alone--life imperfect--that can fear; death can not fear.

Even the terror that walketh by night is a proof that I live, and that it shall not prevail against me.

And to Mary, besides her heavenly Father, her William Marston seemed near all the time.

Whereever she turned she saw the signs of him, and she pleased herself to think that perhaps he was there to welcome her.