In the silence that followed these passing disturbances, Agnes went on
counting the roses on the arm-chair, more and more slowly. Before long,
she confused herself in the figures--tried to begin counting again--
thought she would wait a little first--felt her eyelids drooping,
and her head reclining lower and lower on the pillow--sighed faintly--
and sank into sleep.
How long that first sleep lasted, she never knew. She could
only remember, in the after-time, that she woke instantly.
Every faculty and perception in her passed the boundary line
between insensibility and consciousness, so to speak, at a leap.
Without knowing why, she sat up suddenly in the bed,
listening for she knew not what. Her head was in a whirl; her heart
beat furiously, without any assignable cause. But one trivial
event had happened during the interval while she had been asleep.
The night-light had gone out; and the room, as a matter of course,
was in total darkness.
She felt for the match-box, and paused after finding it.
A vague sense of confusion was still in her mind. She was in no hurry
to light the match.
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