He had to fight suffering because it was eating out his heart.
Sitting there, eyes wide open, he dreamed of the old homestead and his white-haired mother.

He saw the old home life, sweetened and filled by dear new faces and added joys, go on before his eyes with him a part of it.
Then in the inevitable reaction, in the reflux of bitter reality, he would send out a voiceless cry no less poignant because it was silent: "Poor fool! No, I shall never see mother again--never go home--never have a home.

I am Duane, the Lone Wolf! Oh, God! I wish it were over! These dreams torture me! What have I to do with a mother, a home, a wife?
No bright-haired boy, no dark-eyed girl will ever love me.

I am an outlaw, an outcast, dead to the good and decent world.

I am alone--alone.