'
'You are a bad sleeper?' I said, in a tone that proclaimed at once
that I was a bad sleeper also.
'Yes,' said he, 'and so are you, as I noticed the other night. I can
always tell. There is something in the eyes when a man is a bad
sleeper that proclaims it to me.'
Then springing up from the divan and laying his hand upon my
shoulder, he said, 'And you have a great trouble at the heart. You
have had some great loss the effect of which is sapping the very
fountains of your life. We should be friends. We must be friends. I
asked you to call upon me because we must be friends.'
His voice was so tender that I was almost unmanned.
I will not dwell upon this part of my narrative; I will only say that
I told him something of my story, and he told me his.
I told him that a terrible trouble had unhinged the mind of a young
lady whom I deeply loved, and that she had been lost on the Welsh
hills. I felt that it was only right that I should know more of him
before giving him the more intimate details connected with Winnie,
myself, and the secrets of my family.
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