"Well, thank you."
He touched her pulse, then straightened her hair, that had fallen over her forehead.
"You are not asleep," he said. "It's beautiful weather outside. It's spring. The nightingales are singing, and you sit in the dark and think of something."
She listened and looked into his face; her eyes were sorrowful and intelligent, and it was evident she wanted to say something to him.
"Does this happen to you often?" he said.
She moved her lips, and answered:
"Often, I feel wretched almost every night."
At that moment the watchman in the yard began striking two o'clock. They heard: "Dair ... dair ..." and she shuddered.
"Do those knockings worry you?" he asked.
"I don't know. Everything here worries me," she answered, and pondered. "Everything worries me. I hear sympathy in your voice; it seemed to me as soon as I saw you that I could tell you all about it."