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Updated: June 8, 2025
"Not very well," she replied, shortly. "You woke me up last night out of my first sleep, and I was wakeful for the rest of the night." Then, sitting down, she added, "Gentlemen, the milk is getting cold."
Now when I found how great a time I had slept, I did scold Mine Own; but yet, as she did say, I must have long slumber if that I go so long wakeful, else should I lose my strength. And I askt how oft she had eat, and she told me but the once, and that six hours off.
Were they asleep or dead? For myself, sleep was wholly out of the question. My fainting fit over, I was wakeful as the lark. I suffered too much for sleep to visit my eyelids the more, that I thought myself sick unto death dying. The last words spoken by my uncle seemed to be buzzing in my ears all is over! And it was probable that he was right.
Anon she rose, and roved about as if distraught, reciting verses from Virgil. Night had fallen. Benedetto lay wakeful in his cell. A female figure stood before him bearing a lamp. It was Manto. "Benedetto," she said, "I am a wretch, faithless to my country and to my master. I did but even now open his sacred volume at hazard, and on what did my eye first fall?
"Did you sleep last night?" he asked. "Yes, but I had a horrible dream. I was glad to wake up this morning." "I didn't sleep, so all my dreams were wakeful ones. You're not sorry, are you, Rosemary?" "No, indeed! How could I ever be sorry?" "You never shall be, if I can help it. I want to be good to you, dear. If I'm ever otherwise, you'll tell me so, won't you?" "Perhaps I won't promise."
Now I understand how terribly you must have suffered these last years. You'd never make a criminal, Olof; even I, a woman, could commit a crime with colder courage. Oh, but I love you for it! And you don't know how glad I am to think my child's father is like that. A wakeful, tender conscience that is the best thing you can give him, though you give him so much.
"A dozen ghosts couldn't have managed to make themselves more of a nuisance." Being an emotional person in a spasmodic and egotistical fashion, he found himself thinking presently of Janet Merryweather, as he had thought more than once during the wakeful hours of the night.
Nothing has happened nothing except a look, nothing except the want of pressure of the hand. The man lounges off to the smoking-room, cool and indifferent; the woman, in her chamber, falls into a passion of tears, and at the end of a wakeful night comes into a new world, hard and cold and uninteresting. Or the reverse happens.
His feelings appeared to preserve an unchangeable tenor, and his thoughts and words always to flow with the same rapidity. His slumber was profound and his wakeful hours serene. He was regular and temperate in all his exercises and gratifications. Hence were derived his clear perceptions and exuberant health.
Tossing wakeful upon his bed, he saw the pageant of the future touched the robe, all saffron and silver, of the goddess Inspiration and, with the brushes and colors of imagination, gained to the gateway of fame. It was a wild night that spurred to action, and with the coming of the day, Blake's prophecy was fulfilled.
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