Doomsday by Warwick Deeping

The days that followed were days of mute bewilderment. It was like a fog muffling her world, with all the familiar outlines growing dim. Things seemed to happen in the midst of a befogged silence; they concerned her and yet they seemed to be happening outside herself; life moved in a mist; faces were misty; voices came to her very small and strange. She could not feel. There would be brief troublings of the fog; she would feel a cold wind, some new strange chilliness, and the fog would return. She went about softly and sedately, with frightened eyes, wearing her black with an air of wistful consent. Sometimes she would wonder a little at her own deadness.

She had shock upon shock.