Bram Stoker

, what a wealth of sor­row in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor Lucy!

But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things

What I saw was the Count’s head com­ing out from the win­dow. I did not

I was not alone. The room was the same, un­changed in any way since I came into it; I could see along the floor, in the bril­liant moon­light, my own foot­step

Some of the “New Wo­men” writers will some day start an idea that men and wo­men should be al­lowed to see each other asleep be­fore pro­pos­ing or ac­cept­ing. But I sup­pose the New Wo­man won’t con­des­cend in fu­ture to ac­cept; she will do the pro­pos­ing her­self. And a nice job she will make of it, too! There’s some con­sol­a­tion in that.

I have been more touched than I can say by your grief. That is a won­der­ful ma­chine, but it is cruelly true. It told me, in its very tones, the an­guish of your heart. It was like a soul cry­ing out to Almighty God. No one must hear them spoken ever again! See, I have tried to be use­ful. I have copied out the words on my type­writer, and none other need now hear your heart beat, as I did.”

Good night, every­body.

Up to now I never quite knew what Shakespeare meant when he made Ham­let say:―

“My tab­lets! quick, my tab­lets!
’Tis meet that I put it down,” etc.,

for now, feel­ing as though my own brain were un­hinged or as if the shock had come which must end in its un­do­ing, I turn to my di­ary for re­pose. The habit of en­ter­ing ac­cur­ately must help to soothe me.

The sense of sleep was upon me, and with it the ob­stin­acy which sleep brings as out­rider.

I de­term­ined not to re­turn to­night to the gloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep here, where, of old, ladies had sat and sung and lived sweet lives whilst their gentle breasts were sad for their men­folk away in the midst of re­morse­less wars.