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It is eight o’clock in the morning; he has been awake for some time; she is sleeping soundly and sweetly.
He had been quiet and silent for more than an hour, reading the paper, smoking a cigarette, looking at his wife with the fond hope that she may wake up of herself, but in vain.
Then he coughed several times, used his handkerchief without needing it, shook the bed, but in vain.
The waiting had become impatience; impatience had changed to a troublesome, insupportable agitation.
Then he gave her a sweet, light little kiss on her lips. She woke with a start and stared at him—he who had expected a smile or an answer on a par with the question.
“How you frightened me! Why did you wake me so suddenly?”
“I thought my kiss would have pleased you, and hoped to wake you gradually without giving you a shock.”
“But you know—you know very well that for some time past waking me in that way has hurt me. It gives me palpitation of the heart, and then I feel ill all day.”