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 over what had happened. Once more he began to fancy that it was a dream. It must be a dream—he was asleep of course, in his bed at the farm, and presently Mally would come knocking at his door and he would wake to find the sunlight pouring in through the window, and—

"What is to be done?" asked Verrell.

Hepworth started. Done? Then it was no dream. To do something meant action, reality. It was no dream.

"Done?" he said. "Done? I don't know—I can't think. Of course you are right—there is something to be done. But what? I can't think yet—give me time."

He spoke in disconnected sentences, feeling that he was not master of himself. Try as he would he could not think—it seemed to him that the blow which had just fallen upon him had numbed his faculties and rendered him wholly incapable of thought. It was difficult to speak, but more difficult to think.

"I suppose we must do something," he said