"And it seemed as if the remembering was killing me over and over again-- It is like that now.

But in the Wood Lord Coombe said something strange--which seemed to make me begin to think a little.

Only it was like beginning to try to write with a broken arm.

I can't go on--I can only think of Donal-- And be lonely--lonely--lonely." The very words--the mere sound of them in her own ears made her voice trail away into bitter helpless crying--which would not stop.

It was the awful weeping of utter woe and weakness whose convulsive sobs go on and on until they almost cease to seem human sounds.