As they went over a vise-like grip caught his arm,
and amid all the infernal confusion he somehow connected that
despairing clutch with a succession of shrill and piercing shrieks
which rang in his ear, seeming to be close to him. He remembered that
in the chair behind his had been a young girl, and he felt a pity for
her that choked him like a hand at his throat. Then as they went down
he instinctively but vainly tried to shake off the hold, which was as
that of a trap. It was like being in the actual grip of death.
All sorts of loose articles fell with them from the upturned side of
the car to the other; they were part of a cataract of falling bodies,
involved as in a crushing avalanche. Wynne found himself in this
falling shower crumpled up between two chairs, one of his feet
evidently thrust through a broken window and the other still held by
that convulsive clasp. Miss Morison was half above him, partly
supported by a chair which still held by its fastenings to the floor.
He could not see her face, and his body was so twisted that he could
not move his head with freedom. Berenice was evidently insensible, but
whether stunned from the shock or more seriously hurt he could not
tell.
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