She knew so well why she was being disturbed by this horrid nightmare! It was because of Bunting--Bunting, who could think and talk of nothing else than those frightful murders, in which only morbid and vulgar-minded people took any interest.
Why, even now, in her dream, she could hear her husband speaking to her about it: "Ellen"-- so she heard Bunting murmur in her ear--"Ellen, my dear, I'm just going to get up to get a paper.

It's after seven o'clock." The shouting--nay, worse, the sound of tramping, hurrying feet smote on her shrinking ears.

Pushing back her hair off her forehead with both hands, she sat up and listened.
It had been no nightmare, then, but something infinitely worse-- reality.
Why couldn't Bunting have lain quiet abed for awhile longer, and let his poor wife go on dreaming?
The most awful dream would have been easier to bear than this awakening.
She heard her husband go to the front door, and, as he bought the paper, exchange a few excited words with the newspaper-seller.

Then he came back.

There was a pause, and she heard him lighting the gas-ring in the sitting-room.
Bunting always made his wife a cup of tea in the morning.