Last night I went to bed when the men simply because they told me to lie down. I was not sleepy, and felt enormous anxiety. I was thinking about what happened since Jonathan came to see me in London and all this seems like a horrible tragedy, as if destiny pushing things to an end accident.
Everything we do, for good intentions we have, seems to lead to something to be deplored. If I had not gone to Whitby, perhaps poor dear Lucy would be with us now. It had not happened to visit the cemetery of the church until the time of my arrival, and had it not been there during the day would not come back asleep at night, and the monstersleep, so I got out and looked out the window. The mist was spreading, and was already very close to the house, so I saw it lying thick against the walls, as if climbing into the windows. The poor man was stronger than ever, and though he could not distinguish his words, I realized that it was an impassioned plea on your behalf. Then there was the sound of a struggle and I knew that the attendants were dealing with him. I was so scared, I covered my head with the sheets covering my ears with your fingers. I was not sleepy at all or at least thought so, but I must have fallen asleep, because, with the exception of dreams, I do not remember anything else until the arrivala, the fire seemed to split and I saw it as if it were two red eyes through the fog, such as Lucy told me she had seen in her momentary mental wandering on the cliff, when the sun reflected in the windows of the church of Santa Maria. Suddenly, I remembered I was horrified and Jonathan had seen those awful women in the whirling mist in the moonlight, and in my dream I must have fainted, because I was in the midst of profound darkness.
The last conscious effort which imagination made was to show me a livid white face bending over me out of the mist. I must be careful of such dreams, as they can to shake the reason
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