“That means tomorrow morning,” thought Svetlogoúb. “They always behave like that. Tomorrow morning I shall not be⁠ ⁠… no, it is impossible! It’s a dream!”

But the watchman came in⁠—the real, familiar watchman⁠—and brought two pens, an inkstand, a packet of notepaper, and some blue envelopes, and moved the stool to the table. All this was reality, and not a dream.

“I must not think⁠ ⁠… only not think. Yes, I will write to Mother,” thought Svetlogoúb, and sat down on the stool and at once began.