The touch of someone’s hand roused her. She awoke. But the touch was light and pleasant. The hand pressed hers more closely. Suddenly she became alive to reality, screamed, jumped up, and trying to persuade herself that she had not recognised the Count, who was standing under the window bathed in the moonlight, she ran out of the room. …
And it really was the Count. When he heard the girl’s cry, and, behind the fence, a husky sound from the watchman who had been roused by that cry, he rushed headlong across the wet, dewy grass into the depths of the park, feeling like a detected thief.