Oh! I don't know, I don't know _what_ to do--I haven't got any-thing left!" And here, to Olva's intense dismay, the wretched creature burst into the most passionate and desperate tears, putting his great hands over his face, his whole body sobbing.

It was desolation--the desolation of a human being who had clutched desperately at hope after hope, who had demanded urgently that he should be given something to live for and had had all things snatched from his hands.
Olva, knowing what his own loneliness was, and the terror of it, understood.

A fortnight ago he would have hated the scene, have sent Bunning, with a cutting word, flying from the room, never to return.
"I say, Bunning, you mustn't carry on like this--you're overdone or something.

Besides, I don't understand.

What does it matter if you _have_ grown to distrust Med-Tetloe and all that crowd.