The desert about them typified that forthcoming existence--barren, devoid of life, dull, and dead.

He set his teeth savagely to keep back the moan of despair that rose to his lips, half lifting himself in the stirrups to glance back toward her.
If she perceived anything there was not the slightest reflection of it within her eyes.

Lustreless, undeviating, they were staring directly ahead into the gloom, her face white and almost devoid of expression.
The sight of it turned him cold and sick, his unoccupied hand gripping the saddle-pommel as though he would crush the leather.

Yet he did not speak, for there was nothing to say.

Between these two was a fact, grim, awful, unchangeable.