tortured body, but there is no opiate for agony of the spirit, the
sharp-toothed pain that stabs at a lonely heart with its invisible
lancet.

In the darkness of his room, with all the noisy traffic of a seaport
city rumbling under his windows, Hollister lay on his bed and
struggled against that terrifying depression which had seized him,
that spiritual panic. It was real. It was based upon undeniable
reality. He was no more captain of his soul than any man born of woman
has ever been when he descends into the dark places. But he knew that
he must shake off that feeling, or go mad, or kill himself. One of the
three. He had known men to kill themselves for less. He had seen
wounded men beg for a weapon to end their pain. He had known men who,
after months of convalescence, quitted by their own hand a life that
no longer held anything for them.

And it was not because life held out any promise to Hollister that he
lived, nor was it a physical, fear of death, nor any moral scruple
against self-destruction. He clung to life because instinct was
stronger than reason, stronger than any of the appalling facts he
encountered and knew he must go on encountering. He had to live, with
a past that was no comfort, going on down the pathway of a future
which he attempted not to see clearly, because when he did envisage it
he was stricken with just such a panic as now overwhelmed him.

To live on and on, a pariah among his fellows because of his
disfigurement. A man with a twisted face, a gargoyle of a countenance.
To have people always shrink from him. To be denied companionship,
friendship, love, to know that so many things which made life
beautiful were always just beyond his reach. To be merely endured. To