But a deadly, chilly, langour was spreading over his limbs.

It was as if his flesh had been wet plaster stiffening slowly about his ribs.

Presently, he thought, the two witches will be coming in, with crutch and stick--horrible, grotesque, monstrous--affiliated to the devil--to put a mark on his forehead, the tiny little bruise of death.

And he wouldn't be able to do anything.
Tom had struck out at something, but he was not like Tom.

His limbs were dead already.