It was difficult to breathe.

He panted for air.

The faces and naked arms of the house-boys were beaded with sweat.
"Marster," one of them ventured, "big fella wind he come, strong fella too much." Sheldon nodded his head but did not look.

Much as he had loved Hughie Drummond, his death, and the funeral it entailed, seemed an intolerable burden to add to what he was already sinking under.

He had a feeling--nay, it was a certitude--that all he had to do was to shut his eyes and let go, and that he would die, sink into immensity of rest.