The vivid picture her father's quotation brought before her mind filled it with horror and grief that passed all words.
The wind was wailing round the house with a ceaseless moan of pain, in which she could almost distinguish the tones of a human voice lamenting its lost and wretched fate.

The cry rose and fell, and passed on, and came back again, muttering and calling, but never dying away altogether.

It sounded to her like the cry of a belated wanderer calling for help.

She rose hastily and opened the cottage door, as if she could hear Roland Sefton's voice through the darkness and the distance.

But he was dead, and had been in his grave for many days already.