He said to himself: "I will wait. Either this is all nonsense … or she is here. She will not play with me like a cat with a mouse!" He waited, waited a long time … so long that the hand on which he was propping his head became numb … but not a single one of his previous sensations was repeated. A couple of times his eyes closed…. He immediately opened them … at least, it seemed to him that he opened them. Gradually they became riveted on the door and so remained. The candle burned out and the room became dark once more … but the door gleamed like a long, white spot in the midst of the gloom. And lo! that spot began to move, it contracted, vanished … and in its place, on the threshold, a female form made its appearance. Arátoff looked at it intently … it was Clara! And this time she was gazing straight at him, she moved toward him…. On her head was a wreath of red roses…. It kept undulating, rising….
Before him stood his aunt in her nightcap, with a broad red ribbon, and in a white wrapper.
"Platósha!" he enunciated with difficulty.—"Is it you?"
"It is I," replied Platonída Ivánovna…. "It is I, Yashyónotchek, it is
I."
"Why have you come?"
"Why, thou didst wake me. At first thou seemedst to be moaning all the while … and then suddenly thou didst begin to shout: 'Save me! Help me!'"
"I shouted?"
"Yes, thou didst shout, and so hoarsely: 'Save me!'—I thought: 'O Lord!
Can he be ill?' So I entered. Art thou well?"
"Perfectly well."
"Come, that means that thou hast had a bad dream. I will fumigate with incense if thou wishest—shall I?"