So he left me. And I was deadly tired; but I had no thought of sleep--no
wish for it. When I had unlocked the door of my boudoir and found Ivor
Dundas gone, as I had hoped he would be, the next hope born in my heart
was that he might by and by come back, or send--with news. Hour after
hour of deadly suspense passed on, and he did not come or make any sign.
At five o'clock Marianne, who had flitted about all night like a
restless ghost, made me drink a cup of hot chocolate, and actually put
me to bed. My last words to her were: "What is the use? I can't sleep.
It will be worse to lie and toss in a fever, than sit up."
Yet I did sleep, and heavily. She will always deny it, I know, but I'm
sure she must have slyly slipped a sleeping-powder into the chocolate. I
was far too much occupied with my own thoughts, as I drank to please
her, to think whether or no there was anything at all peculiar in the
taste.
Be that as it may, I slept; and when I waked suddenly, starting out of a
hateful dream (yet scarcely worse than realities), to my horror it was
nearly noon.
I was wild with fear lest the servants, in their stupid but well-meant
wish not to disturb me, might have sent important visitors away.
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