Oh, small enough seemed Mary Warren to her own self now.
She stumbled back to her seat behind the table, near the bunk, and tried to take up her knitting again.

The silence seemed to her so tremendous that she listened intently for some sound, any sound.

Came only the twitter of a little near-by bird, the metallic clank of a meadow lark far off across the meadows.

They at least were friendly, these birds.

She could have kissed them, held them close to her, these new friends.
But why did he not come back--the man?
What was going to happen if he did come back?
How long would all this last?
Must it come to death, or to the acceptance of terror or of shame, as the price of life?
She began to face her problem with a sort of stolid courage or resolution--she knew not what to call it.