But if fuel be twenty miles away, in a sea of shifting ice and bitter cold, if it be somewhere where no man may reach it alive--what then?
First, we burn the fence, if we can find it.
Then we burn all loose things.

We burn the chairs, the table, the bed, the doors-- Then we rebel; and then we dream.
Sam Poston came into the office where Franklin sat on Christmas eve, listening to the clinking rattle of the hard snow on the pane.

Sam was white from head to foot.

His face was anxious, his habitual uncertainty and diffidence were gone.
"Cap," said he, with no prelude, "the whole country below'll be froze out.

This blizzard's awful." "I know it," said Franklin.