There. I hear Master coming in from his laboratory, climbing through the dark, still house and thinking we are all of us asleep in our beds while he is left alone, awake. Can he feel that I am here, listening to him, sleepless on his account? Will he think of me as he goes into his room, lights the lamp I trimmed for him, sits on the bed I made for him, drinks the water I brought up for him, or perhaps lights the fire I laid for him and stands gazing at the burning coals until sleep finally finds us both?
Mary Reilly, Valerie Martin