He had, and prided himself on having, a great capacity for sleep.

She tiptoed past his door, stole into her own room, and then, glancing in the direction of his, was startled to see that a light was burning.

She went in; he was reading, and once again, as his eyes turned toward her, she thought she saw the same tragic appeal that she had felt that afternoon in his kiss.
Trembling, she threw herself down beside him, clasping him to her.
"O Vincent! oh, my dear!" she whispered, and began to cry.

He did not ask her why she was crying; she wished that he would; his silence admitted that he knew of some adequate reason.
"I feel that there is something wrong," she sobbed, "something terribly wrong." "Nothing could go wrong between you and me, my darling," he answered.

His tone comforted, his touch was a comfort.