I could not think clearly. My head reeled and if I had not clutched the mantelshelf I would have fallen. I shivered like a man in a fever and when I tried to speak, to cry, to shout her name that the whole world must hear and echo my calling voice, I had no voice; my mouth opened and closed, making no sound, only my breath broke and sighed in my throat and my heart, as loud in my ears as thunder, seemed to grow and swell in my bosom. I drove myself outside. When I shouted, the hills bandied her name. Poised on the brink of despair I listened with bated breath for her replying voice. I began to speak aloud to her, scolding her, petting her, begging her to come home. Now I fell into a rage against the men who followed me. I rushed back to the cave for the rifle and brandished it, cursing them, threatening them, until dread mastered me once more. Then I cried, ‘Terry! Terry! come home.’

Through all the moments of that time something in my head, cold and malignant and as serene as the dead, heard my foolish voice’s babbling as if it was a child’s wailing, and knew that this my noise was but the momentary extravagance of fear. And as it knew, so I was aware with part of my mind that when I gave up shouting for Terry who would not come, never come home, this frozen rage would rule me, this icy death in life be my portion. I clung to my fear, lest it leave me to despair. I shouted when I knew calling was vain. But still I shouted to keep myself from despair.