No talk left in you, and your feet
dragging like lead. We'll sit down here for a minute and rest. The
snow has held off so far, and the best part of our journey is over.'
The Mole subsided forlornly on a tree-stump and tried to control
himself, for he felt it surely coming. The sob he had fought with so
long refused to be beaten. Up and up, it forced its way to the air,
and then another, and another, and others thick and fast; till poor
Mole at last gave up the struggle, and cried freely and helplessly and
openly, now that he knew it was all over and he had lost what he could
hardly be said to have found.
The Rat, astonished and dismayed at the violence of Mole's paroxysm of
grief, did not dare to speak for a while. At last he said, very
quietly and sympathetically, 'What is it, old fellow? Whatever can be
the matter? Tell us your trouble, and let me see what I can do.'
Poor Mole found it difficult to get any words out between the
upheavals of his chest that followed one upon another so quickly and
held back speech and choked it as it came.
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