Twice her attention was distracted from the counting, by sounds outside--by the clock chiming the half-hour past twelve; and then again, by the fall of a pair of boots on the upper floor, thrown out to be cleaned, with that barbarous disregard of the comfort of others which is observable in humanity when it inhabits an hotel.

In the silence that followed these passing disturbances, Agnes went on counting the roses on the arm-chair, more and more slowly.
Before long, she confused herself in the figures--tried to begin counting again--thought she would wait a little first--felt her eyelids drooping, and her head reclining lower and lower on the pillow--sighed faintly--and sank into sleep.
How long that first sleep lasted, she never knew.

She could only remember, in the after-time, that she woke instantly.
Every faculty and perception in her passed the boundary line between insensibility and consciousness, so to speak, at a leap.

Without knowing why, she sat up suddenly in the bed, listening for she knew not what.

Her head was in a whirl; her heart beat furiously, without any assignable cause.