But then, if it were all true, he must go
away--and her life would be over, with its loving hope and its hopeless
love.
It is small wonder that Vjera did not sleep that night.
CHAPTER VIII.
Once or twice in the course of the night, the Count changed his position,
got up, stretched himself and paced the length of the room. Dumnoff lay
like a log upon his pallet, his head thrown back, his mouth open, snoring
with the strong bass vibration of a thirty-two-foot organ pipe. The Count
looked at him occasionally, but did not envy him his power of sleep. His
own reflections were in a measure more agreeable than any dream could have
been, certainly more so in his judgment than the visions of unlimited
cabbage soup, vodka, and fighting which were doubtless delighting
Dumnoff's slumbering soul.
As the church clocks struck one hour after another, his spirits rose. He
had, indeed, never had the least apprehension concerning his own liberty,
since he knew himself to be perfectly innocent. He only desired to be
released as soon as possible in order to repair the damage done to his
coat and collar before the earliest hour at which the messengers of good
news could be expected at his house. Meanwhile he cared little whether he
spent the night on a bench in the police-station, or on one of the rickety
wooden chairs which afforded the only sitting accommodation in his own
room. He could not sleep in either case, for his brain was too wide awake
with the anticipations of the morrow, and with the endless plans for
future happiness which suggested themselves.
Pages:
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139