She fell, soundlessly, her head striking the edge of a chair with a deadening, thudding crash.
Standing in the doorway looking down at her, the faint, outdoor light shining on her face and revealing its ghastly whiteness, Dale suffered a quick reaction.

He had not meant to strike so hard, he told himself; he hoped he had not killed her.
Kneeling beside her he felt her pulse and her head.

The flesh under his hand was cold as marble; the pulse--if there was any--was not perceptible.

Dale examined the back of her head, where it had struck the chair.

He got up, his face ashen and convulsed with horror.
"Good Lord!" he muttered hoarsely, "she's dead--or dying.