He sat down by her and put his arms around her; she buried her face in his bosom, she clung to him, she poured out her terrors, her unavailing regrets, and the far echoes turned them all to jeering laughter.

Tom begged her to pluck up hope again, and she said she could not.

He fell to blaming and abusing himself for getting her into this miserable situation; this had a better effect.

She said she would try to hope again, she would get up and follow wherever he might lead if only he would not talk like that any more.

For he was no more to blame than she, she said.
So they moved on again--aimlessly--simply at random--all they could do was to move, keep moving.