character of the house. She got so far as understanding that it was all as unfurnished as this room, that the house stood solitary among trees, and that even these, and the tangled garden that she determined must surround the house, were as listening and as expectant as herself and the waiting figure of the boy. Once more, as if to verify her semi-passive imaginative excursion, she moved to the door. …
Ah! what nonsense it was. Here she was, wide awake again, in her own familiar room, with the firelight on the walls.
… Well, well; sleep was a curious thing; and so was imagination. …
… At any rate she had written to Mr. Cathcart.