It was very cold and very still, as if winter had laid a compelling
silence on everything in the land. Except the faint slapping of little
waves against the ice-encrusted, rocky shore, and the distant, harsh
voices of some wheeling gulls, there was no sound or echo of a sound,
as he stood listening.
Yet Hollister was not oppressed by this chill solitude. In that
setting, silence was appropriate. It was merely unexpected. For so
long Hollister had lived amid blaring noises, the mechanical thunder
and lightning of the war, the rumble of industry, the shuffle and
clatter of crowds, he had forgotten what it was like to be alone,--and
in the most crowded places he had suffered the most grievous
loneliness. For the time being he was unconscious of his mutilation,
since there was no one by to remind him by look or act. He was only
aware of a curious interest in what he saw, a subdued wonder at the
majestic beauty and the profound hush, as if he had been suddenly
transferred from a place where life was maddeningly, distractingly
clamorous to a spot where life was mute.
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