His was a darkness unbroken by a ray of thought or sensation, a dreamless inanition, a vast space of peace.

The tumult of his mind had swelled and risen to an abrupt climax of silence.

Where was the man?
Where is any man when insensibility takes hold of him?
"It seems only yesterday," said Isbister.

"I remember it all as though it happened yesterday--clearer, perhaps, than if it had happened yesterday." It was the Isbister of the last chapter, but he was no longer a young man.

The hair that had been brown and a trifle in excess of the fashionable length, was iron grey and clipped close, and the face that had been pink and white was buff and ruddy.