Bram Stoker

, what a wealth of sor­row in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor Lucy!

But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things

What I saw was the Count’s head com­ing out from the win­dow. I did not

I was not alone. The room was the same, un­changed in any way since I came into it; I could see along the floor, in the bril­liant moon­light, my own foot­step

Some of the “New Wo­men” writers will some day start an idea that men and wo­men should be al­lowed to see each other asleep be­fore pro­pos­ing or ac­cept­ing. But I sup­pose the New Wo­man won’t con­des­cend in fu­ture to ac­cept; she will do the pro­pos­ing her­self. And a nice job she will make of it, too! There’s some con­sol­a­tion in that.

I have been more touched than I can say by your grief. That is a won­der­ful ma­chine, but it is cruelly true. It told me, in its very tones, the an­guish of your heart. It was like a soul cry­ing out to Almighty God. No one must hear them spoken ever again! See, I have tried to be use­ful. I have copied out the words on my type­writer, and none other need now hear your heart beat, as I did.”

Good night, every­body.

The at­tend­ant thinks it is some sud­den form of re­li­gious mania which has seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man with hom­icidal and re­li­gious mania at once might be dan­ger­ous. The com­bin­a­tion is a dread­ful one. At nine o’clock I vis­ited him my­self. His at­ti­tude to me was the same as that to the at­tend­ant; in his sub­lime self-feel­ing the dif­fer­ence between my­self and at­tend­ant seemed to him as noth­ing. It looks like re­li­gious mania, and he will soon think that he him­self is God. These in­fin­ites­imal dis­tinc­tions between man and man are too paltry for an Om­ni­po­tent Be­ing. How these mad­men give them­selves away! The real God taketh heed lest a spar­row fall; but the God cre­ated from hu­man van­ity sees no dif­fer­ence between an eagle and a spar­row. Oh, if men only knew!

I am weary to­night and low in spir­its. I can­not but think of Lucy, and how dif­fer­ent things might have been. If I don’t sleep at once, chloral, the mod­ern Morph­eus—C2HCl3O. H2O! I must be care­ful not to let it grow into a habit. No, I shall take none to­night! I have thought of Lucy, and I shall not dis­hon­our her by mix­ing the two. If need be, to­night shall be sleep­less. …

Chas­ing an er­rant swarm of bees is noth­ing to fol­low­ing a na­ked lun­atic, when the fit of es­cap­ing is upon him!