Explore "The Search Party's Find" by Grant Allen on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I can stand it no longer. I must put down my confession on paper, since there is no living creature left to whom I can confess it.
The snow is drifting fiercer than ever to-day against the cabin; the last biscuit is almost finished; my fingers are so pinched with cold I can hardly grasp the pen to write with. But I _will_ write, I must write, and I am writing. I cannot die with the dreadful story unconfessed upon my conscience.