tted in returning to life.

When I rose the day was far advanced. While dressing my hair before the
glass I perceived that my colour was returning, and when I put on my
dress, I remarked that I could no longer wear my funereal clothes; they
have become much too tight for me and confine my chest. The old hoary
headed pedlar came in good time! It is long since I have had a fit of
vanity. But if one is to live, why not do like other women? When I had
done plaiting my hair, I came to the conclusion that after all, I did
not look so very old. I do not know how it happened, but my thoughts
then suddenly turned to the young Pole, and I began to consider what
charm was attached to me, that anyone could fall in love with, at ten
paces distance. Probably it is all a matter of taste.

For the first time I was ashamed of my old-fashioned clothes, and when
putting on my hat, determined to have a new ribbon for it, before I
ventured out on my thorny walk among the strangers. And so it came to
pass that as I was going to leave my room, my head filled with finery
like that of a silly Miss in her teens, the door opened and in walked
Morrik. I verily believe that he had forgotten to knock. I was somewhat
startled, but he did not seem to notice it. He was quite absent and
shy.

He did not even sit down, but walked at once to the window, and admired
the view; then examined the writing-table, and talked about rococo
furniture with the air of a connoisseur. All at once he burst forth,
and begged my pardon for the liberty he had taken in calling on me, but
that he was starting for Venice tomorrow morning, and wished to take
leave of me. He wanted also to excuse himself to me and to thank me.

I sat down on the little sofa, and could find no word in reply but:
"Won't you sit down." I still had my hat on which did not appear very
hospitable but he seemed to think of nothing but how to express in
words, what weighed on his mind.

"What must you have thought of me," he at last said, "when you neither
saw nor heard anything of me, after that night when you, and the doctor
watched by my bedside. But I am not quite so bad, so heartless, so
ungrateful, as you must have supposed me. The truth is that I can
recollect no more of what happened during my illness than I can
remember of an uneasy dream. I certainly fancied that I had seen you at
my bedside, that I had received the medicines from your hands, and that
it was you who had arranged my pillo