The figure at the oars was crooning softly. It was like the lullaby his mother used to sing to him when he was a child.
There was a breath of freer air—humanity lay behind them—they were alone with Nature on the vast, dim sea.
The numbness crept to the roots of his being. He had no hands to lift; he had no feet to move. His heart grew sluggish: there was a numbness in his brain.
Death stood upright now in the bow before him: and in the east he was aware of a widening breadth of grey.
Would the blackness freshen into perfect day for him . . . or would the night lie hopelessly on him for ever? . . .
The figure drew near—and laid its hand across his eyes. . . .
"Thrown out of the hansom, and the wheels went over him, sir. He was dead in less than five minutes, I should think."
"Cover his face . . . and break it gently to his wife."