Once more on that night of agonizing dubiety, what was to be done?
He looked round desperately for guidance, and, as he looked, a light appeared in the window of the hilltop cottage.
"Perhaps," said he, "if I knock at the door up there, they can give you a glass of milk.

Or a cup of tea," he added, brightening with the glow of inspiration.

"Or they may be able to let you lie down for a while." But Emmy shook her head miserably.

Milk, tea, recumbent luxury were as nothing to her.

Neither poppy nor mandragora (or words to that effect) could give her ease again.