But by one of those fantastic tricks the imps of dreaming play us, the last patch of consciousness changed into my wife's face.

It was too dim and distant to stir grief or regret; like the vague vision of a beloved face hovering over eyes that are waning in death.
In the morning I was awakened as usual by the officer bringing the light for my gas.

At eight o'clock the little square flap in my door was let down with the customary bang, and, on looking through the aperture, I perceived a big pan containing a curious clotted mixture, which resembled bill-stickers' paste.

Behind the utensil I saw part of an officer's uniform.

This worthy stirred the mixture with a ladle, while he jocosely inquired, "D'ye want any of this ?" I did not.