She spoke neither French nor English, and I could get no intelligence from her, not understanding her phrases of dialect.

But she bathed my temples and forehead with some cool and perfumed water, and then she heightened the cushion on which I reclined, made signs that I was not to speak, and resumed her post at the foot of the sofa.
She was busy knitting; her eyes thus drawn from me, I could gaze on her without interruption.

I did mightily wonder how she came there, or what she could have to do among the scenes, or with the days of my girlhood.
Still more I marvelled what those scenes and days could now have to do with me.
Too weak to scrutinize thoroughly the mystery, I tried to settle it by saying it was a mistake, a dream, a fever-fit; and yet I knew there could be no mistake, and that I was not sleeping, and I believed I was sane.

I wished the room had not been so well lighted, that I might not so clearly have seen the little pictures, the ornaments, the screens, the worked chair.

All these objects, as well as the blue-damask furniture, were, in fact, precisely the same, in every minutest detail, with those I so well remembered, and with which I had been so thoroughly intimate, in the drawing-room of my godmother's house at Bretton.