“I think I must decide⁠ ⁠… for your sake.⁠ ⁠… But I implore you, do not hurry me. I must think it over.”

I did not hurry her, although I realized that I ought to have been delighted, as there is no greater honor than to crown someone’s evening years.

… All night strange wings were about. I walked and protected my head with my hands from those wings. And a chair, not like ours, but an ancient chair, came in with a horse-like gait: first the right fore- and left hind-leg, then the left fore- and right hind-leg. It rushed to my bed and crawled into it, and I liked that wooden chair, although it made me uncomfortable and caused me some pain.

It is very strange; is it really impossible to find any cure for this dream-sickness, or to make it rational, perhaps even useful?