Dickens: Pickwick Papers, Philippe was already asleep, curled in an extraordinarily small bundle under the bedclothes. The light was still on, and his book had slid to the floor. Something was clutched in his hand, and I drew the sheet aside to see what it was-one of the Queen's soldier; with the fur hats. I picked up the book, straightened the bedclothes, turned off the light, and went softly out, taking the unwanted chocolate back to the pantry. Back in my room, I walked straight through it onto the balcony, letting the curtains fall behind me to cut off the light. The night was cairn, and unexpectedly warm. There was still no sign of fog, but I thought, that I could see a paler darkness away in the valley's depths. The damp of spring hung in the air. An owl called below me, down in the woods; called again. Its muted melancholy found too ready an echo in me. I felt tired and depressed. Too much had happened today; and the pleasant things-the morning's encounter with William Blake, my gay little flirtation with Florimond in the salon-had somehow faded back out of mind and left me with this queerly flattened feeling.
